The Light and the Darkness
by trinkadawn
Summary: The whole of a person is a delicate blending and balancing of both good and evil. When madness unleashes Legolas’ dark side, Aragorn will have to risk everything to save him – including the crown.
1. Chapter One

-The Light And The Darkness–  
  
By: Trinka  
  
Rating: R (For child abuse in the beginning chapter only, violence, and death)  
  
Feedback: Trinkadawnhotmail.com  
  
Spoilers: Maybe little ones from The Toy, but we all know how elves feel about caves, mines, and holes anyway, so...umm...nope.  
  
Disclaimer: I wish I owned something of Tolkien's, but unfortunately I don't. Not a thing, nada, zilch, zip, and no permission to use it. What's mine is mine and what's his is his, so if it's not his, it's mine. That make sense? No money, nothing. Please don't use anything you don't recognize from the great Tolkien without asking first, alright? (Cause it's mine.) :o)  
  
Summary: The whole of a person is a delicate blending and balancing of both good and evil. Simply put, one can not exist without the other. The first warning had gone completely unnoticed. The second came too late in the form of a horrible nightmare. When madness unleashes Legolas' dark side, Aragorn will have to risk everything to save him – including the crown.  
  
Warnings: Angst (a must), torture (another must, but not bad), child abuse (written before TLR came out, I swear), and death (gasp!). Now before you raise an eyebrow and wag a finger at me, I have to say that I really do like Legolas and Aragorn (Elessar), honest! I just had to do it. :o) That said, there's a little of everything in this.  
  
Timeline: As far as a timeline goes, this takes place roughly a few years after Aragorn claims the crown. Since I'm no expert, that's about as close as I can tell you.  
  
Additional Disclaimers: The Gondor of this story is largely my rendition, as are its customs, ways, policies, and laws. So if you see things differently, that's fine, just know that its just my take on things and I'm in no way trying to say it's a fact. Also, don't look up LOTR maps and such for something you don't instantly recognize. You won't find it. They only exist in this story, not in Tolkien's Middle Earth. Also, please note that I have opted to use the more familiar Aragorn name, instead of Elessar or Thorongil. Other characters, yes, I took liberties with them as well. Please do not flame me for them. Any spelling errors, typos, or character errors are completely my fault and are purely accidental. I'm not an expert on Middle Earth and have never claimed to be. So please forgive any omissions that you find. What else... Oh yes... The odd spaces are to show and highlight quick double thoughts... sort of like flash interruptions to stress key words. I wanted to stress a word or words, flash thoughts... Sort of like he didn't want to think one word so he tried to steer clear of it, but it kind of popped up in his mind, you know? A sort of a double thought between the conscious mind and the unconscious mind. Like two different conversations... No, huh? Alright. (Sigh.) Oh, and one more thing (this might be the confusing part): /Some thoughts will look like this,/ and some thoughts will look like this. Just go with it and hopefully it'll make sense.  
  
Special Dedication: To: Breann Rutledge, a fellow dreamer and sweet, beautiful soul and friend, who (I prefer to say) sailed down Anduin and so over Sea on Nov. 26 / 03. She showed me and all who had the privilege of knowing her the true meaning of courage and indomitable spirit. You fought the good fight, Bree, and though your quest has come to an end you will live on in our hearts. Go rath maith agat. (Irish for: Thank you.) This is for you, my young friend.  
  
My Corner: Cassia: (you said that I can say whatever I'd like so...) A huge smile and thank you to my favourite author for...well...everything. (JAWS, pyramids, puppies, orc chocolate, craziness, all of your help and encouragement, the odd knock on the head and brutal kick in the butt sniff (jk), your shoulder and your ear, growling and bad days, stars and dots, coffee and chocolate, and... -- ooh look, a bon-bon... I'll arm wrestle you for it! eg Thank you, my friend. It's such a privilege. Your wonderful stories make me dream. :o)  
  
Long, huh? I know - you're muttering, "Will you shut up and just get on with it already?"  
  
Enough said. Let's begin...  
  
-The LIGHT And The Darkness-  
  
Chapter One  
  
Moon's Hem  
  
Part 1  
  
The glowing orb of silver – Lover's Moon, as they call her – hung huge and low in the evening sky above the ragged hills five leagues east of Ashern and ten leagues south of Old Boomer Hollow. A chilly haze crept below her, rolling silently into the streets. Tomorrow, the old ones with the wagging tongues, superstitious minds, and second sight, would say that Lover's Moon had been dragging the hem of her skirt, then would rattle on in hushed whispers that the coming of Moon's Hem was a dark omen signalling a bad change to come. For the boy who lived here with no family but his father, Moon's Hem would indeed signal a bad change.  
  
Sitting on the top step with his back to the door, his breath misting faintly in the still air and his face glowing with moonlight, nine-year-old Ridley stayed put as he'd been told while the Hem silently crept down the street towards him. It swirled below the step beneath his feet then rose in a gentle wave and washed over his bare toes. Shivering, he drew his knobby knees up to his chest, linked his thin arms around them, and looked toward the dying sunset with dreaming eyes.  
  
Just as it seemed that the waiting would never end and he would most likely be sitting here all night, the four men – guests of his father – finally emerged from the house. They stopped barely long enough to glance at him. He glanced up, hopeful yet that they might go back inside.  
  
They didn't. Without a word to him and ignoring the Hem, they staggered past and made their way down the misty road; holding onto each other for support, singing a particularly vulgar song at the top of their lungs, and happily murdering the chorus as they went. Ridley sat looking after them knowing what this meant. Life was good when father was happy. Life was bad when he was not – usually it was more bad than good – the only thing worse is being ignored. Father had sent his friends home early tonight. That meant only one thing: life was about to get bad again. The dreamy expression fell from his face. His eyes filled with silent tears; swam with them; overspilled. Twin glistening trails flowed down dirt-smudged cheeks.  
  
Overhead, Lover's Moon drifted behind a cloud.  
  
"In here boy. Now," his father's thick voice called from inside.  
  
The last word was like the crack of a whip. Startled, Ridley flinched as though he'd been stung. He wiped the wetness from his cheeks with a quick sweep of his palms then made for the door, thumbed it's latch, and stepped inside; his heart thumping hard in his chest as he did. Purely out of habit, he stopped just inside the doorway and peered into the dimly lit room. Also purely out of habit, his small, sweaty palm maintained it's tight grip on the open door's latch. He wouldn't risk closing it behind him – not yet, anyway – just in case he needed to make a quick exit.  
  
He heard the sound of thick fingers drumming the wooden tabletop – a clear warning of his father's growing impatience. Before moving he glanced up at the space on the mantle above the cold hearth. What he saw there – or rather, didn't see there – made him forget all about Lover's Moon and her ominous Hem. /It's empty,/ he thought, and bit his lip. He felt an urge to bolt, to run out the door while he still could, and restrained it.  
  
The drumming grew louder, and the pulse in his throat instantly quickened to match it. Steeling himself, he turned to the sound and spotted his father's daunting form sitting in the shadows of the unlit kitchen. Even at this distance and in this poor light he could easily make out the half- empty jug of spirits on the table. It was no trick to spot it, just a well practiced eye from years of experience. He always looked for the jug before looking for his father. It was far safer (and healthier) to know if a storm was brewing before he got too near.  
  
A storm was definitely brewing tonight.  
  
"Well?" his father called, the voice slurred and thick. "Were you born in a barn? Close the damn door and get over here!"  
  
Ridley jerked forward at the sound of his father's call. His mouth worked but nothing came out. Trembling, he closed the door and inched his way toward the kitchen. He didn't know if it was a true premonition or just his overactive imagination, but these days he smelled "blood on the wind," as the old-timers said – maybe his own; as though something bad was coming and had been for a long, long time. He wasn't exactly terrified – not yet, at least – but he was very frightened.  
  
/Another go-round,/ Ridley thought. /Lords, but I'm tired of this. Tired to death of it all./  
  
"Sit," his father hissed, yanking out a chair with a ham-sized fist.  
  
The chair was much closer to his father than Ridley was comfortable with. Still, he sat obediently, laced his fingers tight together on his lap, and waited.  
  
"Know what today is, boy?" his father mumbled thickly, his glassy eyes narrowing. Without waiting for an answer, the man wrapped a fist around the jug's neck, tipped it to his lips and half-drained it before setting it back down. He swiped the back of his forearm across his mouth then his face hardened again as his gaze cut back to him.  
  
Ridley saw all of this out of the corner of his eye, not daring to look up. He knew better than that. He also knew better than to answer. In all honesty, he knew it wouldn't matter if he did or didn't answer because either way the storm was still going to come.  
  
"Well?" his father grunted.  
  
Ridley nodded as he stared at the middle of the table, all the while blinking back stinging tears that were threatening to brim once more. He knew all too well what today was. How could he forget when he was constantly reminded of it? He breathed through his mouth, not his nose, as much to calm himself as to avoid the smell that was making his empty stomach churn; the air was thick with the stale stink of alcohol on his father's breath and sour stench of sweat on his body.  
  
"What did you say?" his father muttered, his eyes narrowing. "What's the matter with you? Can't you speak all of a sudden?" As he leaned toward him, Ridley stiffened and held his breath; sure he would vomit if he got any closer. "Who tells you to speak in silence to the man who raised a motherless boy?" his father asked, the tone of his voice enough to freeze Ridley's blood in his veins. "To the husband of that poor woman who died nine years ago today giving your worthless hide life? Get your tongue working or I'll pull it outta your head."  
  
"I'm sorry," Ridley breathed, his voice trembling like his hands, and the next instant he was flying across the room.  
  
If he had struck the corner of the cabinet head-first, he could have been killed outright. As it happened, his back took the brunt of the impact. He rebounded and landed in a heap on the floor. For a moment he lay as he was, groggy and gasping, a high ringing in his ears and brilliant light swimming in his eyes. Then as if from a great distance he heard his father's deep voice growl: "You miserable little whelp."  
  
With a tremendous effort, Ridley managed to blink the light from his eyes and turn his head. Familiar, cold panic seeped into his limbs when he saw his father slowly rise from his chair. In his imagination he saw the doom the man's shadowed eyes foretold – the end of everything, and possibly the end of his life.  
  
/Oh, Lords,/ Ridley thought, staring up at him. /Move! Move now!/  
  
He sat up and skittered backwards into the small, cobwebbed space between the kitchen's twin cabinets. Ridley was quick; his father – drunk and slow, but with a long reach.  
  
"Where do you think your going, boy?" He gathered a handful of Ridley's shirt in one fist and dragged him out. "Uppity fool. I should do myself a favour and still your pert tongue for good, so I should. And I should do it right and proper this time. Right and proper. What would you think of that?"  
  
Ridley began to tremble with nerves. They were partly of fear, but mostly of shame and confusion; there was even a small, dark part of him that hated his father and always would.  
  
Now on his knees in front of the man, Ridley made no attempt to move away this time, just stayed where he was with his hands raised protectively above his dipped head; his mind full of fear, his back smarting with pain, and his heart full of shame for cowering the way he was.  
  
"By the Lords, you will answer me, boy, or I'll have your head!" The man pulled Ridley up and set him on his watery legs, where he swayed dizzily back and forth. The iron fist, still clamped to the front of his shirt, tightened. "Now, my pert little whelp, you're due another lesson in manners."  
  
/He's not steadying me,/ Ridley thought. /He's readying me./  
  
He knew the difference, all right. He was so accustomed to this ritual he knew exactly what would come next. But this time...it didn't, and that frightened him even more. Instead, he was yanked forward, right up to his father's face – so close, in fact, that he could have kissed him if he pursed his lips.  
  
"I shoulda drowned you in the nearest stream the day you were born, so I should," his father slurred in his face; the putrid smell of his breath filled Ridley's nose and made his eyes water. "The cause of it all, you were. A black curse, you were. Nine years of looking at your face and seeing her dying is more than enough. Do you understand me?"  
  
He shook Ridley back and forth like a rag doll. The boy burst into tears.  
  
"Do you? Answer me!" his father bellowed.  
  
Ridley didn't reply. He was looking at the man's eyes – at the change in his eyes. One vicious backhand across the mouth got his full attention.  
  
"I'll have none of your uppity attitude in my house! Is that clear enough for you?"  
  
Ridley still didn't reply. His mind was clicking over at an incredible rate as he stared into his father's eyes – analysing, calculating, seeing him as if for the first time, seeing him as he really is. Not looking, but seeing.  
  
"Is – that – clear?" the man roared, striking him again.  
  
"Yes!" Ridley cried. His eyes, now watery with pain as well as fear, closed for a moment. Tears squeezed out from beneath the lids and through the fringe of his lashes. He wanted desperately to believe that what he had seen was some trick of his frightened mind, but he couldn't. It was real, alright. As real as the pain he was feeling now.  
  
/Oh it's clear,/ Ridley thought, watching the sledgehammer-fist draw back as if in slow motion. /I understand everything about you./  
  
As so many times before, he felt an immense tiredness creep over him as his body surrendered and his mind accepted the fate to come. But strangely enough, he knew that this time it would be different. This time as he gave over, he knew he could also be giving up something else: his life. There was the usual hate in his father's grey, glassy eyes – yes – but also something else. Ridley had intuitions that were sometimes very strong. He'd learned years ago to read people very, very well. The briefest lift of a brow. The slightest twitch of the mouth. The tiniest movement of the eyes. Call it survival. Call it conditioning. Whatever the name, it was there, none the less. So, really, what was it he was reading in his father's face – in his eyes – now?  
  
/He means to kill me this time. That's what it is./  
  
/Then do it and be done with it,/ the distant part of his mind challenged his father silently...except it was not frightened, just truthful. /Go ahead...or someday, so help me Lords, I'll do it to you./  
  
He had never in his life had such a thought. Nor expected to have one. But he was tired. Tired of it all. Tired of cowering like an beaten dog every time his father called him, walked into the room, or even looked at him sideways.  
  
"Boy," the man snarled, "if I never see your murdering face again, I'll count my life as good!"  
  
"As will I," Ridley said quietly but brassy, wondering as soon as the words were out where on earth they had come from. He heard his father gasp. Never had he said such a thing to his father in his life, but now he had a desperate need to say it; to let him know how he felt; to let him know how he felt before he died – if he was to die tonight – and once it was out, he waited uneasily for whatever explosion might follow.  
  
None did.  
  
"What?" his father asked in disbelief. The boldness of the words set the man back in surprise. For a moment all he could do was stare blankly at Ridley, the look on his face read as though he suddenly found himself holding an angry viper instead of a helpless child.  
  
"You heard me," Ridley said, levelling a glare of someone far older than his years and far braver than he'd ever been before. Then he added: "And I hate you, too, father," the last word spat as though foul and filthy in his mouth.  
  
And so, he realized, he did. A great weight seemed to slip off his shoulders at the honest confession, and with it Ridley found a power within himself he didn't know he possessed. He looked him square in the eyes. "Do your damnedest," Ridley said defiantly, "because after tonight, you'll not hurt me again."  
  
The man heard two things in that voice: youth and truth. He paled for a moment then gave a lopsided grin.  
  
"I'll put you in your grave, then," he snarled, lifting him one-handed into the air and shaking him again. "You're grave! Like I shoulda before!"  
  
The last thing Ridley remembered of that night, and never forgot, was the look in his father's eyes. In that moment, the glassy anger and drunkenness was gone from his face, but what replaced it was no better – stone-sober purpose. And when it finally came – and come it did, by the thundering Lords – the force that rocked Ridley's head backwards almost broke his neck. He instantly, and mercifully, lost consciousness.  
  
When he came too – surprised he came too at all – it was with people walking past him making no move what-so-ever to help, blood all over his face, fresh bruises on top of bruises, and shaking from the cold. He was sprawled on the frosty ground outside, the house pitch-dark behind him.  
  
He pushed himself to a sitting position and gently fingered his fiercely pulsing upper lip. Being as painful and swollen as it was, he was more than a little surprised that he still had it, and all his teeth as well. He looked calmly back at the house, his fingers still tracing the split, his face set with defiance. He struggled to gain his feet, and failed the first time, then, though still unsteady, managed to stand. He made no move to try the door. There was no need. He knew it would be locked. His father's message was as sharp and clear as the air around him: Get out.  
  
Lover's Moon was gone. The sun was coming up.  
  
Part 2  
  
As though in a daze, his fingertip traced the scar that ran from near the middle of his upper lip to just under his left nostril, and as he touched it now he reflected that 'there is always an upside to darkness,' as the old-timers said – the upside in his case is having three very valuable and well-learned lessons at his disposal. The first is the uncanny ability to read people at a moment's notice; the second is how to fight; and the third and most important is how to survive. Those three well-taught lessons had been the keys to his survival.  
  
And he is definitely a survivor – having had to do everything and anything to do it, as well as learning all that he could along the way.  
  
/Father had been very disappointed when he saw I had survived,/ he thought. /Very disappointed indeed. I'd have thought he'd have been happy. Go figure./  
  
The three boisterous men at the table behind him exploded with laughter ... again, loud enough this time to dispel these memories, fresh as they were, and return him back to the present. But the noise level here in the Boar's Tusk was to be expected, downright grating even at the best of times. No better than one hundred souls were packed together in the small inn, all of them drinking hard, yet there was more noise here than five hundred rowdies could possibly make. Even so, he felt right at home here amid the noise. Preferred it, actually, over quiet. Clanking mugs, shouts, the odd fist- fight, an upturned table; these men – drunk as sin and full of spit-and- vinegar – were as potentially dangerous as lightening clouds looking for a target. Still, to Ridley, it felt...normal. Home. The Boar's Tusk, it seemed, was the mirror image of his soul.  
  
It was also the perfect setting to conduct business.  
  
With men of a certain type and temperament, ale and loud noise are often far more effective than quiet when it came to loosening the tongue and settling the nerves; the noise covers business talk that best remain hidden from sharp ears and wagging tongues, and the ale makes businessmen more pliable. Tonight Ridley had given up his plan for a more intimate setting with any one of a good two dozen women who sought his company to do business with Twill in this place without so much as a second thought – it was that important. He had met up with Twill in the shadowed corner of the inn, as planned, and had waved an order to the innkeeper for two ales as he took a seat. There was no sense trying to conduct business before Twill had a few stiff drinks in him, Ridley had reasoned; Twill looked more on edge than usual tonight. As they'd waited for their drinks, Ridley had leaned back in his chair and scanned the room, and had, it seemed, relived a few old memories best left old.  
  
The dim inn was full of stale smoke and talking and grumbling and loud bursts of laughter, unfortunately most of it coming from the table directly behind him. He closed his eyes and forced his temper down. It wasn't easy. It never was. All thoughts of his past left his mind, drowned under a growing red anger. Twill, sitting across from him, could see the hardening change in his face, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair because of it.  
  
"Someone should give them a lesson in manners," Ridley said without turning and making no attempt to lower his voice. But the second time Twill gave him that pleading 'don't do anything, please' look, he let it drop, although grudgingly.  
  
A fresh-faced, raven-haired, buxom young woman set a heavy, mug-laden tray down on the edge of their table. He glanced up as she unloaded two mugs; placing one in front of Twill without so much as a momentary look, and the second in front of him while moistening her full lips and locking her dark eyes onto his. There was no guesswork in the sultry look. He knew exactly what she meant by it. Any fool would. And any red-blooded male old enough to know 'the look' would have taken her up on that offer in a heartbeat.  
  
/So call me the king of fools, then,/ he thought. /Because I've no time for this right now./  
  
But as he looked in her eyes he thought of his flash-fire temper, and was amazed at how fast and furious these emotional storms blew in – not two seconds ago he had wanted to beat the hell out of those braying idiots behind him – and how fast and furious they blew back out again. Locked in her lustful gaze, he found his anger was suddenly absent, for now.  
  
For a moment it was as if they were holding a conversation in their own private world – the world of silent exchanges.  
  
/Well, hello./  
  
/Hello./  
  
/You look bored to tears. I can remedy that boredom./  
  
/I'll bet you could, sweet one. But sadly ... no. Bad timing and all that. I'm busy right now. My friend and I are talking over some business./  
  
/Are you sure?/  
  
His small smile was one of politeness, not interest. He was used to this sort of reaction from women. Had it been any other day, he would already be in the process of accepting her silent offer, being as...overly blessed by the Lords as she was. But today was not a day to mix business with pleasure. Of course, tomorrow might be a different story...  
  
/Yes. Quite sure./  
  
He waited, holding the smile and mentally counting off the seconds to see how long it would take her to realize he wasn't going to get up. Smart women would know in less than five. Dull-witted – more than ten. After a full fifteen, her smile drooped, but only a little. Confused at being turned down, she hoisted the tray up and backed away from the table instead of turning from it; all the while her eyes still fixed solidly on his. He watched her go, slightly flattered at the offer but not overly surprised by it.  
  
/Some other time, perhaps?/ her hopeful eyes and single raised brow wordlessly conveyed.  
  
He nodded (/Sure – some other time, sweet one./) and turned his attention back to Twill.  
  
"I'd say she's a bit taken with – " Twill began.  
  
"Not with me," he interrupted, his voice matter-of-factly as he reached for his mug. "She thinks I'm someone else. "  
  
The men behind him exploded again.  
  
He had been raising his mug of ale. It stopped three inches shy of his mouth. "That's it," he growled, slamming his mug down on the table. The foam splashed back over his hand, drenching his cuff. He glared dirty mad at it; preferring to drink it, not wear it.  
  
Twill tensed. He knew exactly where this was going. They'd known each other for years. He was one of the select few who could say they knew the real Ridley, though most times he wished he didn't.  
  
"Forget them," Twill said quickly, the usual fret evident in his voice.  
  
He wished he could, but he couldn't. Not this time.  
  
They bellowed laughter again.  
  
Ridley's jaw tightened; not for the first time that night. Twisting in his chair, he turned to the three half-drunk and overly-loud men, reached over and slammed a fist down on their table. One look in his blazing eyes told them all they needed to know. They took the hint and quieted. For a moment he felt a touch disappointed that they'd given in so quickly. Frustrated to death with Twill right now, the thought of beating the void out of someone was starting to appeal to him; it might help to work out a little aggravation, so to speak; and surely they deserved some sort of punishment for driving him half-mad. A thought crossed his mind. A smirk pulled at the corners of lips as he rose from his chair.  
  
Twill looked up and saw that Ridley had removed a stone covered with fool's gold from his pocket and was now manipulating it back and forth across the knuckles of his right hand. Light sparkled off of it as it traveled it's slow course. Twill felt his eyelids grow heavy. He forced a hard blink and looked away, fast.  
  
"Ridley, don't – " Twill began, but broke off when it was obvious that the other was ignoring him – obvious because Ridley had already dragged his chair to their table, straddled it backwards, and was in the process of sitting down; the stone still doing it's slow dance. And it was already too late to bother finishing the sentence anyway seeing as how brows were in the process of raising at Ridley's joining them uninvited.  
  
"You boys seemed to like a bit of fun, don't you?" Ridley asked in a low, suggestive voice. His eyes were not on their faces as he spoke but on the twinkling stone as it did its nimble journey across his knuckles...and back...and across...and back...and across...  
  
Ridley didn't need to look over to know that Twill had trained his eyes away from the journey of the stone and the men had not – Twill was quite familiar with this game. He began to speed the rhythm up until the stone seemed buoyant above the back of his hand.  
  
Twill had indeed looked away from the floating stone, though it took a great deal of effort for him to do so, and was now watching the spellbound faces of the men instead. Though he didn't approve of this by any means, he found the spectacle quite fascinating.  
  
"Well?" Ridley asked in that same low voice.  
  
"What?" one man asked numbly, his wide eyes fixed fast upon the dancing stone.  
  
"Fun," Ridley repeated quietly. "You boys like fun, don't you?"  
  
"Uhh... sure," said a second man, his eyes frozen to the movements of the glittering piece.  
  
The third didn't seem to hear at all, only stared blankly at the floating stone. Below it, Ridley's knuckles fluttered up and down as smoothly and quickly as a Hummingbird's wings.  
  
"I heard that the mountains around here are full of gold," Ridley said quietly. "It's just sitting up there waiting for someone to find it."  
  
"Find it," one repeated tonelessly.  
  
"Don't you want to find it?" Ridley asked in a low, smooth voice. "I think the three of you should go and find it."  
  
The first nodded; his eyes now completely glazed over. "Yes. We should go and find it..."  
  
"Yes, find it," Ridley said quietly. "Time to find the gold."  
  
Without another word, the three – still glassy-eyed – nodded, stood, and left.  
  
Ridley smirked as he watched them leave. When the door closed behind them he dropped the stone back in his pocket, dragged his chair back to the table, dropped into it, and turned his attention back to Twill. He let out a slow, deep breath, enjoying the win then leaned forward, forearms on the table. "Well?" he asked.  
  
Silence. Twill sat staring at his mug like he wasn't quite sure what it was.  
  
Ridley's fingers began drumming the table – the sound like an unnerving double heartbeat. He was angry and in a dirty mood and tired of these stupid games. He had wanted to get this over with as quickly as humanly possible and move on to...better things, but Twill was busy doing his usual: dragging his feet and being too damned cautious. He was accustomed to Twill's trademark hesitation and normally would have waited it out, but thanks to the men who had been behind him, his temper was in full flare and impatience was feeding the fire. If Twill didn't get on with it soon, he was not going to be able to stop himself from grabbing him and breaking him in half. He was just barely holding himself in his seat as it was.  
  
Twill, his head low, rubbed his thumbs up and down the sides of his mug as if deep in thought. Ridley was watched him carefully, and Twill knew it. Still, he did it anyway because this was the one thing he had over Ridley – an endless supply of patience. Ridley has no patience, Twill knew. Never did. He might be able to make people do anything, but Twill, at least, had something over him, and that gave Twill a small sense of power. Still, he knew he had to time it just right or risk getting laid out flat.  
  
/Almost... /  
  
The drumming grew louder.  
  
/Almost... /  
  
And louder still.  
  
He knew that Ridley would slam his fist on the table any second now.  
  
/Wait. Wait. Look up just before he does. It'll drive him crazy and put him in his place at the same time. It always does. Wait for it... Wait... /  
  
/Now./ Twill raised his head. "You have a real way with people, Ridley," he said calmly, and then frowned as he released the mug's handle and leaned back in his chair. It creaked with the shift of his weight. "I hate it when you do that. You could tell someone to walk off a cliff and they would."  
  
Ridley shrugged but kept drumming his fingers. A tiny grin of satisfaction pulled at the corners of his mouth as he noted Twill's eyes with their 'I- won-that-round' twinkle lowering to his still-pounding fingers. "I have ... and they did," he said softly. "What of it?"  
  
/So you wanna play games with me, do you?/ Ridley thought, amused. /Then let's play my game. Just keep watching my fingers, Twill./  
  
As if Twill had heard his thoughts, his eyes did remained fixed on them, and his face slowly fell slack.  
  
/Try this one, Twill,/ a voice in the back of Ridley's mind whispered as he kept careful watch on Twill's face while the grin faded from his own. /My own father was one of those I sent to walk the cliffs three years ago, and damned if he didn't deserve it. But there are so many more that deserve it as well. So many that turned a blind eye to a child's pain and torture. So many that didn't lift a finger to stop it. And so many that took advantage of it...of me... / he thought bitterly, then forced his mind away because that line of thought was a moot point. They would all get their comeuppance eventually, and sooner than they knew, if what Twill had told him was the truth.  
  
Twill forced his eyes away then shook his head as if to clear it. "Have you really?" he asked mildly. (/Trickster,/ Twill thought. /Another few seconds and he would have had me joining those three fools in the mountains./) "Told someone to walk off a cliff and they did, I mean?"  
  
Ridley nodded, but did not elaborate. He grinned at him and stopped the rhythmic, heartbeat drumming (for which Twill was endlessly, but mutely, thankful). "Let's get back to business, shall we? I'm running late as it is."  
  
"Alright..." Frowning, Twill let his voice trail off, not exactly sure whether to take that as a joke or not. He decided that he would, even though he was sure it wasn't. "Where, when, and how much are we talking about, here?"  
  
"Here, now, and you tell me. I'm done playing with you, Twill. Just hand it over or I'll get it somewhere else."  
  
"Calm down, calm down." Twill's face pinched. "You're sure a hard man to do business with. You haven't changed a bit."  
  
"Neither have you." Ridley paused, his lips pressing into a hard line. "Look, do you have it or not?" He pushed his mug away and stood. "Otherwise, I'm leaving."  
  
"Sit down," Twill hissed, glancing around the full inn. Luckily no one was paying them any attention – or at least they didn't appear to be, anyway. He waved a hand back and forth between them. "You and I have to come to an understanding first."  
  
"Like?" Ridley asked, slowly lowering back down in the chair.  
  
"Like," Twill said, leaning forward on his elbows, "my name stays out of this. As a matter of fact, once you leave here you forget you ever knew me."  
  
Ridley nodded. "Agreed. I wish I didn't know you now. What else?"  
  
"I don't want to know who you're after or why." He waved a hand before Ridley could offer to speak. Not that he was going to. "Don't. Don't say a thing. I don't want to know. And I don't want to see you again after this. You and I are finished. Don't ask me for anything again. Got that?"  
  
Ridley stiffened. He had been raising his mug of ale, again. It never made it to his mouth.  
  
/Seems I'm destined not to have a drink tonight,/ he thought.  
  
"Suits me just fine," Ridley said. "I already wish I'd never met you. Is that it?"  
  
"Yeah, that's it." Twill set a small leather pouch on the table. He glanced over at Ridley, hesitated, and then let out a deep breath – almost a sigh of relief – as he pushed it towards him. "Here. Take it. It's all there."  
  
"How much?" Ridley asked. He made no move to take it. Instead his eyes lowered to it then lifted to Twill's without so much as a twinge of change on his set face.  
  
Twill shook his head. "Forget it. Let's call it a farewell present from me to you." There was smug satisfaction in his voice. "It's worth it to get you out of my hair."  
  
Ridley smirked. "Aw Twill, I'm touched. And I didn't get you anything," he said cheerfully.  
  
"Don't worry about it." Twill slid his chair back and stood. "Getting rid of you is enough present. Trust me. Goodbye, Ridley. Have a nice life."  
  
Ridley fingered the pouch as he watched Twill walk out of the inn. As soon as the door closed behind him, he stood, tucked the pouch into his pocket, and made his own way out.  
  
Part 3  
  
Lover's Moon shone full in the cloudless sky; the stars that accompanied her glittered overhead as far as the eye could see. Twill usually loved the stars, but they gave him no comfort tonight. Not tonight. Not now. He had only one thought now: getting as far away from the Boar's Tusk as fast as possible.  
  
A strange, icy haze had crept silently into the town coming down off the slopes of the mountains, and there was a rare stillness in the air. Moon's Hem, he knew, and shivered. The cold mist swirling about his legs seemed to penetrate deep into his bones. He pulled his thick cloak tighter around him as he hurried down the dark lane, but the cloak's winter thickness gave him no warmth tonight.  
  
Moon's Hem. It's a bad omen, he knew. Then his thoughts turned to Ridley. Now there's a bad omen if there ever was one. Looking into Ridley's eyes is like staring death straight in the face. You never knew when he would strike nor what would set him off to do it. The man was about as stable as an agitated, venomous snake; the most innocent of glances or movements could cause a person to loose their life.  
  
/And I should know,/ Twill mused. /As sad and pathetic as it is to think, I'm Ridley's best friend and he's mine./ He rolled his eyes with that thought.  
  
/Well, we were, up until tonight, anyway,/ he corrected himself.  
  
Even so, Twill considered him to be a vicious, humourless, pain in the rump – always did. And after insulting him they way he had (/That was not the brightest thing I've ever done,/ he thought worriedly), the only thing that would even slightly serve to warm him or comfort his jangled nerves and ease his bone-cold body tonight would be the roar of a fire blazing in the hearth, the doors and windows of his home double-bolted, and sitting with his back against the farthest wall holding a fit crossbow in his hands until he was positive Ridley had left town.  
  
And that's exactly where Twill was heading – home.  
  
/Thank the stars that's over with,/ he thought, forcing himself to stay at a brisk walk and not break into a dead-run like his frayed nerves urged him to do. /A huge financial loss – yes, definitely – but well worth it to get rid of a man like that. He's not all there. Supplying a hired killer, especially one as dangerous as Ridley, isn't exactly my idea of healthy liv – /  
  
Twill heard a noise ahead and froze in his tracks. His mind instantly screamed a warning: /Ridley! Fly! Fly before it's too late!/  
  
Or is it already too late?  
  
He could almost picture Ridley standing in the shadows with knife, or a crossbow, or...something...watching him and waiting; his lean body tensing for the kill; his eyes locked on him; his breath slowed to mask the vapour; his hand tightening on the knife's handle or his finger tightening on the crossbow's trigger...or whatever his choice of a thousand weapons he was expert in.  
  
Ridley had gotten ahead of him somehow, and now...  
  
/I'm already dead!/  
  
The hair at the nape of his neck rose and his breath stilled as he listened. Every nerve he owned fired at the same time. Purely out of habit his hand flew to the hilt of his knife. He stood stock-still like that – stock-still and wide-eyed with sweat trickling down his temples and beading on his forehead in spite of the cold – for a good minute. To him, it felt like a month.  
  
Nothing.  
  
/Get a grip,/ Twill, he told himself. /You're letting your imagination run away with you. That lunatic is not around every damn corner!/  
  
His let his breath and some of his tension out into the brittle night air in a long, steady stream of vapour, then began moving again, quickening his pace. He walked with his head bent slightly forward, one hand holding the cloak closed around him and the other inside it still clutching the hilt of the knife. The few men that came toward him saw a man in a cloak with his head down against the bitter cold and walking with a purposeful stride. The few that came up from behind had nothing but his back to get a good look at, of course, and from behind he looked as anyone else would who was heading home on a cold night. But inside the cloak was a far different story: he was trembling violently and his breath was quick and raspy. His ears filled with his own determined whispers, insisting over and over again that he was alright and that he should move faster.  
  
Twill strode along the dark lane until he passed Raesal's house. His was next. He entered the small strand of trees between the two properties and slowed with shaky relief.  
  
/Lords, I'm getting too old for this,/ he thought bemused. And then bemusement changed to horror as he felt a strong arm slip around his neck and a hand reach around and grab his knife hand by the wrist.  
  
"You were right, Twill. No loose ends," a voice whispered in his ear. A deep voice. A very familiar deep voice. And when Twill tried to turn his head he felt the momentary rush of hot breath on his cheek, then the arm at his throat jerked him backwards into the darkness.  
  
Twill's mind began to shriek. It was a single word, over and over again: /No, no, no, no!/ The arm at his throat hitched tighter with each repetition, as if his horror refreshed and strengthened it. And now, with each of those hitches, Twill could feel his throat closing and his face flushing.  
  
"And I don't take orders from you or anyone else, remember?" Ridley said softly. "Not unless they pay me to."  
  
"Ridley," he croaked. "Plea – "  
  
"Loose lips, Twill. Nothing personal."  
  
Ridley twisted Twill's wrist, turning the knife's tip inward. Then he jerked the wrist towards himself, plunging the blade deep into Twill stomach. At the same time he tightened his arm around Twill's throat, efficiently cutting off the airway and any sounds that might escape.  
  
"I just can't afford loose lips now," he said mildly as Twill went limp in his arms.  
  
Ridley held him awhile longer to be sure, then lowered him into a sitting position against a tree and pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head. He stood back and looked over his handiwork with an experienced eye. Twill's lap was full of blood-red moonlight; Moon's Hem swirled around him like a living shroud.  
  
/Some man sleeping it off a little short of his house?/ he thought. /No one will give Twill a second glance tonight. Maybe in a few days when he ripens a bit... /  
  
He looked down at Twill and graced him with one last smile. He felt good. Very good.  
  
"You got your wish, Twill," he said. "You and I are definitely finished."  
  
He pulled the pouch out of his pocket, dropped it into his large bundle of supplies, and slung the whole thing over his shoulder. That was the last of it. Now he was ready to move.  
  
Humming to himself, he made his way down the path and out of town, his breath smoking faintly in the still air and his face glowing with moonlight.  
  
Part 4  
  
It was high time for a visit and long overdue. They were close now, only days away from Minas Tirith.  
  
All night, laying wide awake with scattered memories of the fellowship's travels, battles, and victories – no true joy found in winning with the awful price of victory being so high – images of Aragorn had flitted through Legolas' head. And now, as dawn rose pink in the horizon, he wondered if Aragorn had finally accepted his part in man's future. The ranger had been at such odds with his feelings about claiming the crown that Legolas couldn't help but wonder what his feelings were now. There had been many private moments of doubt in the months following Aragorn's (Elessar, though Legolas still called him Aragorn or sometimes Strider when it suited him), coronation where he had been of two separate minds and two separate hearts.  
  
/Does he feel more ranger now, or more king?/ the elf wondered.  
  
And then he questioned whether he really wanted to find out.  
  
In the end, Legolas decided that he would concentrate on tackling one thing at a time and forget the rest. He couldn't dwell on what was or might be, only what is.  
  
As dawn's light brightened the sky, he and Gimli packed to leave. They left early, leaving plenty of daylight to travel, and would take their slow time in doing it. Of course, that wasn't Legolas' idea – it was the dwarf's. Caves. There had to be a million caves scattered between where they were now and Minas Tirith, and Gimli was determined to see them all. Not that that came as any surprise to the elf.  
  
They made three leagues at best before Gimli spotted what he considered to be a 'real gem.' It had potential, and made the list as one of those 'have- to-see.' Legolas couldn't believe Gimli had even found it, with it being above them and well hidden by thick trees and brush, but Gimli had followed the musty scent of old earth straight to it, as always. Of course, just because Gimli had found it didn't mean that Legolas had any intention of going in it.  
  
"You're welcome to go in, Gimli." Legolas said, waving a hand at him while he shrugged off his pack, bow, and quiver. He stretched out on a patch of frosty grass, crossed his ankles, and folded his arms behind his head as though contemplating taking a nap. "I'll wait for you," he added, settling.  
  
"Come on, Legolas," the dwarf urged, his eyes widening with delight at the size of the monstrous entrance before him. "There may be artefacts in there, or wall paintings, or – "  
  
"I don't care if all the wonders of Middle Earth are in there, I'm not interested." He closed his eyes, enjoying the sunshine on his face. "Go ahead. I'll wait. I'd rather see the sun than the inside of a hole."  
  
"Mine," Gimli corrected as he pulled his cloak tighter around him.  
  
"Same thing," Legolas countered, grinning.  
  
"Elves," Gimli muttered under his breath, then called: "'Tis March you know, not July. Summer might be coming, but it's not here yet. How can you enjoy the sun in this cold air?"  
  
Legolas lifted his head and smirked. "I'm an elf, Gimli. March, July, it really doesn't matter which. Unless I'm trapped in the mountains in a blinding blizzard, I don't find much of a difference in the weather."  
  
"So you've said, and have said a million times already."  
  
Legolas shrugged. "Then stop asking me."  
  
Gimli grunted a sour snort. "I will."  
  
"Than do."  
  
There was a long pause. Compelled to break it, Gimli heaved a sigh. "Do you always have to have the last word?" he asked gruffly.  
  
"As long as the sun or stars are shining," Legolas said in a cheery, sing- song type of voice, layered on top of Gimli grumpily mimicking: "As long as the sun or stars are shining." The dwarf rolled his eyes and added, "I know, I know. So you've said."  
  
Legolas shrugged. "You've asked me to go into every hole we've come across and I've always said no. Why is it such a surprise now?"  
  
Gimli's brow furrowed. "It's not."  
  
"Then go." Legolas waved a hand at him again and then scooted over to angle himself better so he could feel the sun's rays full on his face. "Please, don't let me stop you," he said tonelessly. "Go and have fun."  
  
"I am going." Gimli stepped inside the mouth and turned back. "You will wait, right?" he asked. His voice echoed loudly off the stone walls as though he was fretful and had yelled, despite no change in his pitch. He soured at it's sound and reddened.  
  
"Haven't I always waited?" Legolas answered, purposely lowering his voice to make Gimli's sound all the more loud. Without bothering to open his eyes (he knew the dwarf's face was positively glowing now) he settled again with a satisfied 'got-you-good' grin fixed on his face.  
  
"Yes." Gimli shot him a hard look, one the elf didn't see because his eyes were closed. "So far."  
  
"Bye, Gimli." Legolas raised a hand and gave a casual wave in the dwarf's general direction. "Take your time."  
  
"You'll wait?" Gimli asked, the words – childish, and the tone far more hopeful than he intended it to be. His face reddened another notch, though that was almost impossible now.  
  
"Gimli, I swear on...whatever you want. Now go."  
  
When Gimli re-emerged an hour later, Legolas was gone. 


	2. Chapter Two

....................................................................  
  
Chapter Two  
  
The Beginning Of The End  
  
.....................................................................  
  
1  
  
That night Aragorn had a nightmare. He awoke from it near tears and shaking like a leaf in a wild wind. He was watching Legolas in the dream, except Legolas wasn't quite Legolas, and for the most part he was standing away from the elf and viewing it all as a spectator.  
  
Legolas was walking down a hallway. But it wasn't just any hallway in any given home but a very familiar hallway in Elrond's home in Rivendell. The elf's steady footsteps echoed loudly on the marble floor – the sound as though a heartbeat to Aragorn's ears. Aragorn didn't like the echoing footfalls, and not just because they gave the house a cold and dead and empty feeling. He didn't like the echoing footfalls because they echoed. Legolas normally moved noiselessly, or close to it, no matter what he was walking on, so the noise simply shouldn't be there.  
  
And because it shouldn't be there, it was wrong.  
  
And because it was wrong, Aragorn had a gnawing feeling that Legolas was wrong.  
  
Or something was wrong with him.  
  
Strange how the addition of something so minor as an echo could cause such strong feelings of dread in Aragorn, but it did. And he'd remember it long after he awoke and some of the dream had faded.  
  
The elf stopped at a end of the long hallway and faced two closed doors – one to his right and one to his left. He looked thoughtfully from one door to the other as though deliberating which one he should enter. Finally he chose the door on the left and closed it behind him. After a time he re- emerged, entered the door on the right, and closed that one behind him.  
  
Aragorn waited for a few moments then cracked the door on the right and peered inside. He was stunned to see himself dressed in his former dark ranger attire sharing a joke with the elf and both laughing easily as they'd always had. Everything was exactly as it should be; what it had been before and what he had hoped would be now. But it wasn't. Things change. He had changed. So had the elf. He found himself reminiscing about the past and smiling wistfully as he watched and listened to them, then felt the familiar deep pang of loss and regret tug at his heart. He missed his absent friend and their past easy interactions so much that he found his thoughts drifting more and more to him everyday. With a heavy sign he quietly closed the door.  
  
He moved to the door on the left and stepped inside.  
  
It didn't open into a room as he expected, but into a massive mine tunnel. A torch burned from an iron standard on the wall beside him. Holding it before him, he began to make his way down the tunnel; all the while anxiety flooding him and growing with every step. Now he stopped, hesitating, wanting to turn and leave, but found himself drawn forward toward a heavy door at it's end as though like a moth to a flame.  
  
A boy Aragorn judged to be no more than fourteen suddenly appeared beside the door and motioned him forward. The youth's featured were quite striking the ranger realized as he drew closer. The handsome lad had long, thick hair that swirled about his face and shoulders as though stirred by a light breeze although there was no breeze here to stir it. His large, dark eyes held a soft, insistent plea.  
  
"This way," the boy said in a quiet voice.  
  
"Who are you?" Aragorn asked.  
  
"The who is not as important as the why," the boy replied mildly. "I am your guide, King Elessar. This path is both treacherous and well guarded, but I have cleared it for you and it is safe enough now. Tread carefully, though. Things change quickly here."  
  
"My dream guide is no more than a boy?"  
  
The young one grinned. "Looks can be deceiving. You of all people should know that, Ranger-King."  
  
True, Aragon thought, but he frowned all the same and asked, "Are you here to give council as well?"  
  
The young one shook his head. "Not now. Only when the time is right. First you must see and believe what is happening around you, for without belief there would be no point in council."  
  
"You speak in High Speech."  
  
"I do." He dipped his head then looked up at Aragorn once more. "Once you enter this room, you will have set your feet upon a path of sorts." He grinned, though it was a sad grin. "This is my path as well. Your choices will affect many, as did the choice of Isildur those many years ago. Small choices that seem to affect only one, affect dozens, and in turn affect all. Do you understand?"  
  
Silence. Then, "No."  
  
The boy smiled. "You will."  
  
"You talk in riddles, lad," Aragorn said, folding his arms across his chest and looking at him with unblinking concentration. "Is this some kind of a test?"  
  
The boy shrugged. "My words are a test of riddles to ears who do not understand their meaning. I assure you that soon you will understand. But first you must see. Then you must believe. The rest you must figure out for yourself."  
  
A long pause. Finally: "Then lead me."  
  
The boy nodded solemnly. "So it begins. And the answers start beyond this door. Brace yourself. You will not like it."  
  
The door swung wide before Aragorn's hand raised to touch it. He heard a soft moan coming from the darkness within. Almost paralysed by the mournful sound, at first he didn't want to move but knew he needed to move.  
  
He glanced back – but the boy was gone. He had disappeared. Aragorn knew that past this doorway was the beginning of something, something huge, something that was his alone to know...and, as the boy had eluded to, something that would trickle down to effect everyone.  
  
Then Aragorn was in the room.  
  
He raised the torch to see – not wanting to see, but needing to see. The torchlight spilled onto a form lying on the floor; it's back against the far wall. He knew who it was and what he'd find before his eyes fully adjusted. Here was Legolas, curled in a tight fetal position, his knees drawn up to his chest and his hands tied behind his back. His head was down; long golden hair obscuring his face. Aragorn didn't want to see his face. He didn't need to. As he hadn't needed someone to tell him there was something wrong with the echoing footfalls, he didn't need to see Legolas' face to know the depth of pain that would be etched across it.  
  
The elf's head began to rise.  
  
/I don't want to see!/  
  
Hair fell away revealing a battered face and glazed, pain-filled eyes.  
  
Two, Legolas breathed, then his head dropped back to the floor.  
  
Without thinking Aragorn leapt forward and grabbed his friend in his arms, wanting to get him out of here. The impulse was so strong it overrode everything, including the sure knowledge that it didn't matter, Legolas was moments away from death and already breathing his last, the best healers in Middle Earth could be standing in the same room and it wouldn't have mattered. Not to Legolas, anyway. Not anymore.  
  
Aragorn slid his arms under Legolas' and locked his hands between his shoulder blades. When he lifted him, the elf's head lolled back. His eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling, gaping mouth ajar, and his body gave a great shudder.  
  
No! Legolas, NO! he cried.  
  
With a final long rush of air, the elf fell  
  
(dead)  
  
limp in his arms.  
  
Then the nightmare went south – a real hard turn south.  
  
A torrent of blood poured from Legolas' open mouth. Skin turned dark and spongy. Brittle hair – lifeless as old dry straw – fell away in great clumps. The skin on his face began sloughing off, dripping like melted wax from some grotesque candle until spots of glistening bone shone through.  
  
Aragorn recoiled backward in horror, overcome by a fit of violent, sort of visceral shaking inside that lasted almost a full minute. He was gripped in a panic so utter and complete that he was literally unable to function in any way. He was amazed that he was even able to breathe.  
  
/It's as if time has sped up to claim him,/ he thought, horrified.  
  
Before Legolas' body completely decomposed into a pool of waxy liquid, his head suddenly turned toward him. Sightless, bulging eyes locked onto his, cracked like thin ice on a lake, and shattered.  
  
- help me – Legolas croaked. Aragorn, please –  
  
Aragorn started to scream – in the dream and not real, thank the stars, or he would have awakened the whole palace.  
  
Two, and yet one, the other Legolas said softly from somewhere behind him with a voice as cold as ice. One and the same. Two halves of a whole. Remember that.  
  
2  
  
Aragorn jerked bolt upright in bed, his face wet and his heart pounding furiously. Shaking from head to foot and glistening with sweat, he stared without thought into the darkness while he waited for the nightmare to let go.  
  
/Oh Lords./  
  
/Stop shaking. Calm down. Breathe... Breathe... /  
  
/This will fade in the morning the way nightmares always fade,/ he assured himself as he ran his trembling hands through his hair.  
  
But in the morning he still remembered the nightmare in all it's full, crisp detail – especially the echoing footfalls – and it didn't fade as days passed, the way nightmares usually do. This one stayed. Gripped him tight and covered him.  
  
Covered him like a wet shroud.  
  
3  
  
Legolas' first thought upon awakening was that death wasn't quite as he had expected it would be. Then, as he came slowly back to himself, he recognized that he was alive. That wasn't quite as he had expected it would be either. He almost wished to try out the other choice before deciding between the two. Pain robbed him of being even remotely thankful of living; it felt as if every bone and muscle in his body had been torn out and put back wrong. The side of his head throbbed wickedly where he had been struck, and his shoulder burned as though it was on fire. He had no idea in this world why his shoulder burned, but he couldn't give it much thought right now – his head was pounding too badly to think.  
  
He concentrated on forcing his eyes open. When he finally succeeded, he wasn't altogether sure he had.  
  
/Either it's extremely dark in here, or my eyes aren't working...or won't,/ he thought. Then he had another thought – one much more frightening: /Or can't./  
  
He heard footsteps. Close. He couldn't see anyone, but he could hear someone or something breathing. The sound seemed to drag on for hours, then was finally broken by a man's cold, even voice.  
  
"Don't try to move. You can't. Just relax. You'll live longer that way."  
  
Legolas slowly became aware that he was bound solid. He was lying on his side on a floor, his numb hands roped too tightly together behind his back and fastened to...something – something sturdy behind him. His ankles were bound together as well.  
  
/It's a him,/ the elf thought. The voice was definitely a male, and no orc either. That answered one question. Now for the other thousand.  
  
"You're here to learn, elf, and I'm your teacher," the cold voice said as though reading his thoughts. "Learn well and we'll get along just fine. Refuse, and ... well, let's just say I won't have any need of you."  
  
Slowly, slowly, a shape – darker than the darkness – moved into the corner of his vision. He felt two instant emotions, one almost on top of the other: first – shock, and then fury. Shock evaporated almost as quickly as it came. Fury stayed. Burned.  
  
"Who are you?" Legolas strained to focus his eyes but his thundering head stole his concentration. "What do you want?" His mind raced over the possibilities, but he refused to put words to visions. He heard the man breathe out slowly. It was a terrible sound.  
  
"That's my business, not yours," the other said mildly. There was a long silence, and then the sound of another deep breath out. "I'm just here to teach, and you're here to learn."  
  
/Learn? Learn what?/ But Legolas didn't ask questions. He felt for an instant as if his heart had stopped. Learn. He had heard that particular word more than once in his lifetime, and it never meant anything pleasant. Rage and confusion were wiped from his mind immediately. He stared, and as he did, he saw the dark form move closer and dropped down to a crouch far in front of him. He seemed to be considering him. Studying him. After what seemed like an age, the form rose and moved back into the darkness.  
  
"You know, there are worse thing than death, Legolas Greenleaf. Much worse."  
  
That caught the elf off guard. He stiffened at the mention of his name, and for a moment it felt as though he'd been punched. /How does he know my name?/ he wondered uneasy.  
  
A small light – a candle – sputtered, then caught, illuminating the man's form. He turned and smiled – not really a smile at all but more like an icy grin. "Better?"  
  
He was nothing like Legolas had expected, and everything, at the same time. Tall, well built, dark hair and grey eyes; well dressed in a white muslin shirt, dark tunic, and dark breaches. He brushed back a stubborn lock of dark curl which fell across his forehead. Legolas was sure of one thing: he'd never laid eyes on that face in his life. Still, it was not any face he'd expected. What he had expected was battle-weary, hardened face of some warrior or past enemy that would have sent chills through him. What he saw was a handsome, albeit slightly scruffy face of a stranger. And yet not a complete stranger, because stranger still, even to Legolas' keen elven eyes (although they were blurry at the moment), the man bore a striking resemblance to Aragorn – striking enough to be his brother anyway...if Aragorn had a brother...which he didn't.  
  
Did he?  
  
But to human eyes? He wondered if they would notice the subtle differences. Chancing another hard look, he doubted it. But it didn't really matter right now, he supposed.  
  
The man hunkered down a few feet in front of him, his forearms resting on his thighs and one hand dangling between his knees. He set the candleholder on the floor beside him and seemed content to study him for a time. Finally he spoke again, and when he did it was with a steady, quiet voice.  
  
"You're surprised that I know your name, aren't you?" The man paused. "Don't be. You're going to be surprised about a lot of things here. You see – I know everything about you, Prince of Mirkwood." His eyes held the elf fast. "And you'll learn that I don't take no for an answer. You'll learn to do whatever I tell you, or you're not going to live very long."  
  
The utter confidence in the man's words struck the elf. Well he had news for him – confidence or not, he had never dealt with the likes of him before. It would take more than a few threats, overconfidence, and a bit of rope to get him to do anything. Experts had already had a go, and still, here he was, defiant as ever and alive and healthy to talk about it. He wasn't an elfling and he wasn't easily intimidated, especially by one human.  
  
Legolas watched as the man picked up a wicked-looking, pronged (/What is that thing?/ he wondered, having never seen anything quite like it before) instrument from the floor beside him. The prongs seemed to be either painted or stained a dark colour. The man turned it over seeming to analyse it; his face showed no reaction one way or another about what he was looking at, he just...looked at it.  
  
"And the lessons have already begun," the man went on gently. "Just a small start. Are you having trouble focusing your eyes yet?"  
  
As the man put the pronged...something...back down, he did not take his eyes from his. The knowledge about Legolas' blurred vision struck a blow to the elf as hard as any solid punch would have, but the man shrugged as though it was a common fact. He kept up in the same quiet, rambling tone as if a friendly neighbour chit-chatting on a lazy summer's day.  
  
"Don't worry about it, Legolas. They'll readjust after awhile. Just don't fight it and you'll be fine. If you fight, it'll only prolong things. Do you believe me?"  
  
"No," Legolas said flatly, refusing to mince words with this stranger.  
  
"That's a mistake. Lesson one – always believe me." As he spoke the last word he rose, took a step forward, tangled a hand in Legolas' hair, and wrenched his head up to look him in the eye. "By the way," he said in the same low, conversational voice, "don't waste your time thinking about escape. We're in a sealed room – "  
  
He paused.  
  
"- in a mine -"  
  
He paused again.  
  
"- seven – levels – underground," he said, emphasizing each word slowly and carefully to impart their full impact.  
  
He waited for a moment, watching for the effect of his words to register on Legolas' face. It was instant and exactly as he'd expected, exactly as he'd counted on. Legolas stiffened. Face fell like a ton of bricks – as though someone had snuck up behind the elf and dumped a barrel of ice-water over his head. Looked like he'd been gut-punched with enough force to knock the wind right out of him. All colour abruptly drained from his face. Forehead shone like a lantern.  
  
Legolas knew he couldn't hide the sudden terror that gripped him. It felt as if his heart had stopped in mid-beat. His fury vanished faster than one could snap their fingers.  
  
The man let him go, stepped back, and grinned maliciously. "Feeling a little tight, are you?"  
  
Tight? No, definitely not tight. He felt like his lungs were being yanked out of his chest. His eyes widened. Trembled against his bonds. Mind began flooding with panic. All strength flowed out of him. The room spun wildly. Hazed. Fogged. He felt panic washing over him like a great, icy tidal wave, drowning him in numbness – bone-cold numbness.  
  
He was going to pass out. No, he was going to be sick. Violently sick. He swallowed the huge lump that had formed in his throat, tightening it. His stomach suddenly heaved. Bile rose in a wild rush.  
  
Suddenly the man yanked him up off the floor and pull him backwards into his chest then clamped one hand tightly over his mouth and pinched his nose closed with the other. "Hold it. You can do it," the man said in his ear.  
  
Choking! His lungs burned, screaming for air. He twisted, trying to pull away from the hands, but they remained firmly in place.  
  
"Swallow!" the man commanded.  
  
Legolas struggled wildly. His vision swam; greyed; darkened...  
  
"Swallow! Do it! Listen to me!"  
  
Legolas swallowed airlessly. His ears popped.  
  
"Good. Again."  
  
Dizzy... So dizzy... Flashes of light danced and sparkled before him like tiny flecks of steel glittering in bright sunlight. He swallowed again, then over and over.  
  
The man let go.  
  
Legolas gasped long and hard, pulling in a huge breath and filling his screaming lungs as would a drowning man who's head had just broke the surface of the water. He sputtered and coughed as the man lowered him back to his side on the floor then moved back to his former position: dropping back down to a crouch and then patiently waited for him to catch his breath. When it eased, the man disappeared from his sight. A moment later he returned and dropped down again, this time with a dampened washcloth, and began to pat Legolas' face and forehead with it. He kept this up as the winded elf slowly gained a grip on himself. Legolas concentrated on the sensation of the cool cloth against his skin, trying to be aware of any sign of something more to come. There was nothing.  
  
"Isn't it funny," the man said quietly, as he patted his brow, "that we can find so much relief from something as simple as a wet cloth."  
  
Legolas nodded. He didn't want to, but he did all the same.  
  
"Of course, this same wet cloth you find relief in could smother you, and you couldn't lift a finger to stop it. You know that, don't you?"  
  
Legolas nodded again, this time fastening his gaze on the man's eyes.  
  
"Do you know what I'm trying to tell you? I could kill you," he said quietly but matter-of-factly, and shrugged as he continued to gently wipe his face. "I may yet. I haven't decided. That part will be up to you."  
  
Legolas maintained the locked stare. Even though he felt his muscles begin to relax, he fought to maintain rigidity, fully aware that he had to be prepared for anything. The man may flip again and try to smother him at any moment. But the sensation of the cool cloth on his skin and the man's soothing tone had a strangely hypnotic effect. He became aware that the discipline of his mind over his body was surrendering; that he could no longer order his body to listen to him; that somewhere during the wild up and down ride of intense fear and intense relief he had given up part of his self-control.  
  
"Relax," the man said softly. "Breathe in and out slowly."  
  
Legolas closed his eyes and let the sensation of the cool cloth soothe him. If the man truly wanted to kill him, he reasoned, there wasn't anything he could do about it anyway.  
  
"Seven levels, elf," the man repeated evenly, as casually as though he were talking about the weather. "It must be more than six-hundred feet to the top from here."  
  
Legolas felt the panic beginning to crawl back up his spine again. He swallowed the lump that began to form in his throat again – tightening it again. His heartbeat pick up again. Began to race again. Stomach knotted again. The down ride was going up again, on purpose.  
  
The man gave a long, low whistle. "Just think about it. More than six- hundred feet of rock and dirt sitting right above your head. Tons and tons. That's an awfully big load for four small walls to hold up. And six- hundred feet is awfully far from your precious sun and stars. If you don't behave, I'll leave you in here."  
  
/He's just trying to keep me off balance,/ Legolas thought. /Trying to rattle me...keep me spinning...and he's doing a fine job of it./  
  
The man noted the instant change and smiled lightly as he climbed to his feet. "I just thought you should know where you are, knowing how much you love mines and all."  
  
/He's lying,/ Legolas thought. /He has to be lying. Isn't he? Isn't he?/  
  
"I know; it's a bit much to take in all at once, isn't it?" He moved away. "How about I leave you alone for awhile and give you some time to absorb all of this? Let's say I come back in... oh, I don't know... maybe a day or two? How about a week? Will a week be enough time? Then we can talk again."  
  
The fear returned, only now it had become outright terror. /A week?/ he thought. /HERE? Oh...my... /  
  
/Calm down,/ he cried to himself, fighting to get control. /Calm down! He's just saying that./ His mind ran frantically over the same thought: /You're in a room, you're in a room, you're in a room... /  
  
The man turned to leave.  
  
"You're lying," Legolas said, already knowing he wasn't – the shudder crawling up his back told him so.  
  
"Am I?" The man snorted with laughter. "No, Legolas, I assure you I'm not. Lesson one – always believe me; me and only me."  
  
He picked up the candle and closed the door behind him. 


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three  
  
The Coming Of Change  
  
Part 1  
  
Every echoing step the dwarf took sent a fresh, crawling shiver up Aragorn's back. The only relief he had was when the dwarf's boots paced the long runner of carpet or would briefly crisscross it as he stalked about that great stone chamber better known as the Throne Room. Each echoing click-on-stone thundered through Aragorn's head, bringing back the nightmare with a vengeance and reminding him of Legolas.  
  
/Walking on my grave,/ he thought. /I feel as though someone is walking on my grave...or his./  
  
/No – impossible,/ another part of his mind whispered. /Legolas is certainly capable of taking care of himself. There has to be another explanation. A misunderstanding, perhaps. Or an argument./  
  
/Guess again.../  
  
"Gimli, settle down and start over," Aragorn said. Between the dwarf's quick, angry words and his constant pacing, he didn't catch half of the story. What he did catch, however, sent a chill through him. As much for Gimli as for himself, he added: "I swear, Gimli, someday you're going to break an ankle jumping to conclusions."  
  
Gimli whirled on his heels and shouted: "I am not jumping to conclusions! We're wasting time! We have to move – now!"  
  
Aragorn gave him 'the look' and motioned him to the couch beside him. The dwarf sighed and ran a hand over his distraught face, then stalked over and threw himself onto the cushions.  
  
"Again, Gimli, only slower," Aragorn urged gently, fighting down his own rising fear.  
  
"Oh for... Alright." Gimli heaved a huge breath to pull himself together. "We were on our way here for a visit – "  
  
"How long ago?" Aragorn interrupted.  
  
"It took four days and nights without food or rest to get from there to here... and that's on foot, mind you."  
  
"Four?" That not only set Aragorn back, but took him back to the days of the fellowship when he, Gimli, and Legolas had tracked the band of orcs (who had taken Merry and Pippin) cross-country, heading, as it had turned out, toward Isengard. During that long, arduous trek, Legolas had constantly urged Gimli on, and Gimli had constantly grumbled and complained. As the leagues wore on and their hearts grew heavier and more troubled, at times it would turn into a bickering match the likes of which Aragorn had never heard before and hoped never to hear again – so bad that he was ready to slay them both near the end of it. Luckily the Riders of Rohan had attacked and destroyed the orcs, or he may have. Arguing. The elf and the dwarf were legendary for it.  
  
"Were you and he arguing?" /I hope,/ Aragorn thought to add but bit it back. It would explain everything if they had been. Legolas might have lost his patience and had decided to cool off by giving the dwarf a little distance.  
  
"No." Gimli grimaced. "Well, maybe a little, but no worse than ever."  
  
Aragorn nodded while a ghost of a smile played on his lips. "So is that a yes?"  
  
Gimli shrugged. "I suppose."  
  
"Uh-huh." He felt a slow relief move over him. "And where there any signs of a struggle?"  
  
"No. None." Gimli paused. "And that was what's so peculiar about it, Aragorn. That's what I'm trying to tell you."  
  
"Peculiar?"  
  
"Yes – peculiar," he growled. "If he left on his own, then why isn't he here?"  
  
Aragorn blinked. That caught him off guard. /Yes, why isn't he here?/ he wondered. /A prank to worry the dwarf?/  
  
/No,/ a distant part of his mind answered. /Legolas loves a good prank as much as the next, but not this kind of prank./  
  
Relief evaporated and unease returned.  
  
"Alright, go on."  
  
"Anyway..." Gimli said, shooting him a dirty frown, "when I came out of the mine, he was gone. Lock, stock, and barrel. He left my things, but all of his own were gone."  
  
"You mean he was angry and left." And thought: /Tell me he was angry and left. Or tell me that you're mistaken and have forgotten something – like a change of plans or a stop somewhere else first or – /  
  
"NO, Aragorn!" Gimli leaned forward, dropped his forehead into a hand, and muttered, "Will someone save me from slow-witted fools?" His gaze lifted and so did his voice. "I'm sorry, but are – you – not – listening – to – me? "  
  
In reality, Aragorn was only half listening. For the last several minutes his ear was caught by the phantom sounds of echoing footsteps. This was easily the tenth time this morning he had heard them, and twice since Gimli's arrival – a loud, toneless tapping from everywhere and nowhere. The sound was clearer this morning, if no more comprehensible. Aragorn hated it. It was as if, somewhere out in that realm between reality and fantasy, some invisible force was trying to drive him crazy...or get his attention. He knew the sound was only in his mind, not in the room, but it was loud enough that he couldn't completely tune it out. The best he could do was to pretend – as he had for the last few days – that it wasn't there.  
  
"Aragorn," Gimli went on, not looking at him, "if Legolas moved on without me, he should be here by now. I might be fast, but even if he had taken his time..." He threw his hands up in the air in frustration. "I didn't pass him on the way." He paused – expecting an answer in that pause, a grunt... something...but there was nothing. He turned. Aragorn was looking at him but his eyes seemed distant, as though he was looking without seeing; as though his mind was a million miles away. Gimli glared hotly. "Are you understanding any of this? He said he'd wait, but when I came out, he was gone. Gone!"  
  
Aragorn looked at him blankly for a moment, as if startled out of a daze. "I know what you said, but I'm just trying to make sense out of this." He paused, frowning. "No signs of a struggle. And you two were arguing. He doesn't like mines, Gimli. It's no surprise that maybe he – "  
  
"Left?" Gimli finished. Now it was his turn to stare blankly at him. But there was no daze in his startled look, only disbelief that Aragorn would think to say such a thing. Aragorn knew the elf better than that. "No. He swore he'd wait. Swore, Aragorn. He's the one who told me to go in. Lords know the elf may tread on my last nerve at times, but when he says he's going to do something, he does it." Defiant, he folded his arms across his chest. "If he's not here, then where is he?"  
  
/Then there were no other plans,/ a small distant part of Aragorn's mind thought. He felt his heart sink. The echoes grew louder.  
  
When Aragorn didn't respond right away, Gimli growled, "Are you not listening?"  
  
There was no answer, just the dazed, million-mile-away look again. Gimli's hopes for instant aid collapsed in a puff, and he once more found himself having to restrain a flood of worry, all swimming around two basic ideas: that there was something wrong with Aragorn, and – more importantly – Aragorn was hesitating when Legolas needed him.  
  
Except why was he hesitating? And what made him so sure that there was something wrong with Aragorn? A feeling? The look – yes – but more than that. Gimli found himself wondering if Aragorn's new life as a king could change him so much. The old Aragorn would already be at a dead run for the door. This Aragorn didn't seem to be all here. But he couldn't change this much in such a short time, could he? He didn't know. But he thought he had at least one valid sense: time was ticking away, and for some reason Aragorn seemed content to let it go by.  
  
The king's head tipped as though listening to something. His eyes wandered toward...nothing, frowning as he did as though seeing something, but there was nothing there to see.  
  
/Unless I've gone mad,/ Gimli thought as he followed Aragorn's gaze and looked at nothing as well, then turned back to him. /Mayhap I have./  
  
"What's wrong with you?" the dwarf almost whispered. He was looking at Aragorn as if Aragorn had gone completely crazy.  
  
"Nothing." Aragorn held up a placatory hand. "Calm down, Gimli. I'll send riders out to search."  
  
"Finally!" /That's more like it,/ he thought, falling back onto the pillows behind him and folding his arms across his chest again. "I'm going to kill him," he muttered under his breath. "I'm going to kill him with my bare hands for worrying me to death like this."  
  
/If he's still alive,/ Aragorn thought to say, the dream still nudging his mind urgently, but held it back. Gimli doesn't need to hear that right now and he didn't want to say it. Instead, he signalled to the two guards who were watching them from the far end of the room. Obviously they'd overheard everything because instead of stepping forward, they nodded instead and obediently trotted from the great room.  
  
Likely half of Gondor heard as well, Aragorn mused, since Gimli had insisted on half-yelling out his frustrations as soon as he came within sight instead of holding his tongue until he could be ushered into a more private setting. Overwrought and overly loud, Gimli had insisted on spilling everything in a near-bellow. Too bad he had. Aragorn's first inclination was to go himself. But now that half of Gondor knew, thanks to Gimli, he knew he wouldn't get two feet out the door without being stopped for his own safety.  
  
The dwarf continued to mutter, growl, and rant, but Aragorn had stopped listening to him. He was held in his own thoughts now. Thoughts of the past. Of Legolas. Of himself. Of worry. Of the dream. And of a hawk.  
  
A hawk in a gilded cage.  
  
He remembered quietly admitting the fear of ending up as a hawk in a gilded cage to Legolas one sleepless night when the tonnage of weight he felt about someday having to claim the crown had gotten to be too much. His mind flew back to that quiet night with the fellowship. Even though it had been a few years ago, it felt like a million and yesterday...  
  
"Have you thought about what will happen when this is over?" Aragorn could remember asking Legolas. That conversation had taken place one night in front of a campfire, somewhere in the middle of the quest, about – what? three or four years ago or more? It didn't matter, he supposed. "Providing we succeed, that is."  
  
Legolas had said, "No." Then he'd shrugged, Aragorn remembered, and poked at the fire with a stick. "My focus is slightly narrower. I believe we should live day to day and be thankful when we wake up each morning. But after the fellowship?" He'd paused. Shrugged again. "I haven't given it much thought. But you certainly have. Tell me."  
  
In shame, Aragorn's eyes had glued to the ground, and he remembered thinking, /I can't. I can't get my mouth to work, Legolas. I can't even think it right, never mind say it right./ The vile word 'ashamed' wedged deep in his throat, choking him like a great splinter. It held everything else back.  
  
Legolas had frowned at his silence and touched his arm. "Aragorn, enough is enough. Just say it. I already know what it is, so just say it and let it out. It's alright. You don't want to claim the crown, is that right?"  
  
He'd swallowed hard and started slowly. "I am...afraid that you and I are destined to go our separate ways, one way or another." And then the words came easier. "If I'm forced to don the unwanted mantle of king, you and I both know that our adventures will come to an end. A king can't afford the luxury of freedom, not like a ranger can." He'd paused. His hands clenched to fists in his lap. "I'll be trapped. A prisoner. Chained and shackled to a throne I don't want. Unevenly yoked to a tainted crown glittering with responsibilities and bent from Isildur's damned weakness."  
  
The elf had raised a brow at his rising anger but kept silent.  
  
He remembered looking away in shame as the words quietly flow out of him, needing to get everything out now that he'd finally started. "A hawk in a gilded cage. I hate that thought. That's another reason in a list of a million reasons of why I don't want to claim the title. That, and knowing that I can't stay who I am and still become another. A king can't live as a ranger anymore than a ranger can live as a king. I don't want to be tied down and restrained like a dog on a short rope. I want the freedom to go wherever I please – like I have now, like I've always had."  
  
Legolas turned to him. Still cross-legged, he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs while he listened. Aragorn, however, could not bring himself to move nor look at him.  
  
"Damn Isildur and his failure," Aragorn remembered saying, as he stared into the fire. "Now it's my responsibility to live with his shame and right his mistake. And what do I get as a reward for shouldering his burden for him? I get the joy of being forced into a life I don't want – that's what." He had paused then and in that pause he yanked out a handful of grass and tossed it into the fire, then watched as the blades curled back as though recoiling from the greedy flames. "I'll be kept like found money in a greedy man's pocket: protected, manipulated, and never seeing the light of day again." He shook his head. "I despise the thought, I loath the crown, and I'm ashamed to death of my lineage. Legolas, what do I do?"  
  
The elf had heaved a long sigh and was silent for so long that at first Aragorn didn't think he was going to answer. "That's your destiny, Aragorn, like it or not," he said finally. "Mine is to sail someday, whether I like it or not." He'd shrugged. "I hear the strong call of the sea everyday, but reject it for now...though I know that the day will come when I won't be able to – just like you know that the day will come when you won't be able to reject the crown. The time of elves on Middle Earth is coming to an end, and the time of Man is at hand. You, my friend, like it or not, have been chosen to lead them into the new age." He'd paused. "Understand this: there can only be one winner in this war. Either Man will win the day or Sauron and his minions will. If you do not take your rightful place, Man will fail, for you are the only one who can lead them. You can do this, Aragorn; you have to. And you can have your freedom and your kingdom both, if you trust in yourself and your abilities as a ranger." He'd grinned mischievously. "There is always a way. Think about it."  
  
Aragorn had listened to the words and had thought them through, then still looking at the fire, shook his head. "I am weak, Legolas. I carry Isildur's weakness in my blood."  
  
There had been a long, long silence; so long that Aragorn's shame made him wish the ground would rise up to swallow him. Then the elf had reached over and with a finger and gently tilted his chin up to look him in the eyes. After a moment Aragorn had raised his gaze and searched the only face in Middle Earth he knew he could trust. Legolas' face held not sadness nor sympathy nor pity, only truth. "No, Aragorn," he'd said softly, releasing him. "You are not weak. You are not Isildur. And you will not fail. I know you too well, my friend. You will find a way. There is always a way." He smiled brightly, proudly. "And I will be with you every step of it."  
  
Now the words repeated themselves over and over in Aragorn's mind: /There is always a way, there is always a way, there is always a way.../  
  
The nightmare crept back into sharp focus, and with it came the now familiar shiver and the disturbing thought: /Someone is walking on his grave./  
  
He clenched his hands into tight fists on his lap, knowing that if he held them out in front of him they would be shaking.  
  
/Someone is walking on his grave./  
  
The phantom sound – the echo of footsteps – grew louder still, almost deafening. It was joined by Legolas' and his own light laughter. Aragorn raised a shaky hand to his forehead and gingerly began to rub his throbbing brow. Now he could see Legolas walking down the dream hallway toward the doors. Two doors. Two Legolas'. Two completely different Legolas'.  
  
"Two, and yet one," he heard the other Legolas say in a voice that sent a shudder through him. "One and the same. Two halves of a whole. Remember that."  
  
Then, suddenly, the visions and sounds of the dream were gone. He was back in the palace with Gimli sitting beside him, staring at him like he had just lost his mind, again.  
  
"Aragorn?" The dwarf touched his arm. "Are you alright? You're not ill, are you?"  
  
/What if it's no dream?/ a distant part of his mind whispered. /What if it's a premonition? A warning?/  
  
"Aragorn!" Gimli said sharply.  
  
"What?" He looked at Gimli as though he'd just now noticed he was there and then blinked several times as he came back to himself. "No," he said, his voice sounding strangely distant to his own ears. He thought briefly of saying: "I keep having some kind of flashes. Nightmares. And if they're real... Lords, if they're real, then..."  
  
Thought of it but didn't say it. He patted the dwarf's shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze. "Gimli," he said instead, dropping his voice low, almost conspiratorially, "help me get out of here. I'm going to need a distraction. A very big distraction."  
  
The dwarf's eyes widened. "But Aragorn, what about the crown? What about Gondor? You can't just go traipsing off – "  
  
"It's Legolas." /I should tell him,/ he thought. /Tell him everything. But not here. Too many ears. Half the guards saw me blank out several times today and probably think I'm starting to go crazy. They'll be watching me. Listening... /  
  
"I know who it is," Gimli hissed through clenched teeth in a voice that would not quite remain steady. "Don't you think I know who it is? The question is – do you know who you are? You're not a ranger anymore."  
  
Aragorn gave a lopsided grin. "Says who?"  
  
Gimli's mouth opened to speak then snapped shut. He stared at Aragorn while his teeth began gnawing relentlessly at his lower lip.  
  
"Gimli? Please?"  
  
Gimli looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Alright." He rolled his eyes. "I must be crazy." By now he was so confused that he didn't know for sure if that was a lie or the truth. "I knew you'd want to do something like this. Seems I'm not the only one jumping to conclusions."  
  
Though Gimli's voice had been mild, his thoughts were clicking over at a rapid rate. Not the question of whether he would or wouldn't – of course he would – but the question was how. How would one go about smuggling the most celebrated and recognizable person in Gondor out of Minas Tirith without being noticed?  
  
/By being devious,/ he thought. /And I can do devious./  
  
Gimli grew silent as his mind began to wrap around a half-formed plan. Almost as an afterthought, he muttered: "But when we find him safe and sound, I want to be the one to kill him."  
  
/We won't find him safe and sound,/ Aragorn's mind whispered, and his heart twinged at that thought.  
  
He forced a grin. "Agreed."  
  
Part 2  
  
Legolas realized that he could no longer grasp time as it flowed around him, as though the man had somehow removed his ability to gauge minutes that passed. Not a sound came to him except the sound of his own ragged breathing. When Ridley was there, which was more not than often, there was dim candlelight and always pain. But for the most part it was featureless darkness, almost a denial of time.  
  
/How long has it been?/ he wondered. /Hours? Days? Weeks? Centuries?/  
  
The silence around him was deafening, and the darkness – terrifying. Wide- eyed, he could barely pull a decent breath though his tight throat. He licked at his dry lips and tried to force himself to concentrate on something else – anything else – in order to focus his thoughts and control his rising panic. His thoughts flew to Aragorn – his face, his smile, his eyes – but with his concentration too fragmented with fear to focus properly, it was a hazy, distorted picture at best.  
  
/Focus,/ he told himself. /Just calm down and focus./  
  
/I can't!/ a small part of his mind cried. /I can't breathe! I'm going to smother! Buried alive... /  
  
He found himself remembering the man's words: "More than six-hundred feet of rock and dirt sitting right above your head. A big load for four small walls." It wasn't exact, but it was close enough. Too close. /And what's even more amazing is that I had thought him merely overconfident./  
  
That was a mistake, Legolas now realized too late. /The man knew that I'd react this way. He knew exactly how I'd feel. He had counted on it. That's why he had brought me here. That man is trying to drive me crazy./ He had an ugly thought: /If he leaves me here for much longer, I very likely will be./  
  
Two days. The thought of two day was bad enough. But a week?  
  
/Oh Lords.../  
  
Pure panic. His stomach clenched and he dry heaved. He closed his eyes trying to shut off against the room, but open or closed it didn't matter – it was too dark and the air too heavy and the smell of old earth too thick to successfully block it all out. His stomach clenched again. He clamped his teeth down and dry-swallowed over and over until it eased; so dry he couldn't spit if he was on fire.  
  
/I'm in a  
  
(grave)  
  
mine. Trapped. Buried alive. There's...there's no air in here! I'm going to suffocate!/  
  
He had a mental flash of the mine where he and Aragorn had freed the slaves. Aragorn – the way he had touched his shoulder in a gentle, comforting gesture that had reminded him of the way his friend would touch Frodo's shoulder when he was frightened. He couldn't accept Aragorn's comforting touch then. Accepting comfort would have been the same as admitting fear and weakness. He would gladly accept it now though. As a matter of fact, he'd just about kill for it now. That  
  
(grave)  
  
hole had only been four levels deep and it had taken every ounce of strength he'd had, and then some, to stay down there. This time...  
  
(Seven levels...)  
  
"No air," he said in a trembling, watery voice. He had never been so terrified in his life... and suddenly that sensation overwhelmed him. It was as it had been in that hellish, nightmare mine, but this time it was stronger. Much stronger.  
  
He breathed slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth. It usually helped.  
  
Not this time.  
  
(Seven levels...)  
  
His breathing immediately increased and his chest heaved for air. He closed his eyes and tried to force himself to breathe slowly again. After a few moments he bit his lip, felt his nerves unravel like a ball of string, and knew he was only moments away from tears.  
  
He fought the darkness, fought hard. His eyes grew impossibly wide. Breath came in rapid, short gasps though his slightly open mouth.  
  
"No air," he repeated, and he heard his voice as if from a million miles away, a voice which was filled with horror and terrible wonder. "Sweet Earendil, seven levels. It's seven levels!"  
  
/Stop fighting. Stop moving. Breathe and relax./  
  
/I can't! Lords... /  
  
/Calm down./  
  
/I'm going to smother!/  
  
/CALM DOWN!/ his mind bellowed at him.  
  
A small, strangled cry bubbled up from his throat sounding something like a strange combination of a high-pitched, kittenish mew and a squeal. The sound bounced off the walls and echoed around the room. It wasn't the echo, but the way it echoed... That's when it hit him like a cold slap in the face. That's when he finally knew for certain and couldn't deny it any longer. Rock. This is a room carved out of solid rock.  
  
(Seven levels...)  
  
/The man wasn't lying! Lords, I'm in a GRAVE!/  
  
As if to emphasize that fact, he heard what sounded like a deep rumble a long way off, like the grumble of thunder; then the ground beneath him give a tiny shudder. A moment afterward, a hiss of dirt and rock chips sifted down from the ceiling above, dusting his face and hair. He could taste it. Smell it. Spat it out. It took only a moment to register what it was and where it had come from, and when it did, he literally went wild – twisting and thrashing, desperately renewing the struggle with everything he had until his wrists were rubbed raw and the muscles in his biceps and shoulders burned and shook under the enormous strain. But there was no give to the ropes; no hope. His heart hammered in his tightening chest. Between his racing heart and his ever-tightening throat it was nearly impossible to breathe.  
  
Now he was hyperventilating. Spots glittered in the darkness before his eyes.  
  
/I can't breathe! I can't... I'm smothering! I'm going to die here!/  
  
That's when it happened.  
  
It was the kind of thing one would expect would happen at the hands of screaming orcs or from any one of countless, vile horrors Sauron himself could have inflicted on his worst day; but not here, alone, and in silence.  
  
Something deep inside Legolas' mind...let go.  
  
In that brief split-second he actually felt his mind crumble, shatter, tear apart and separate into two totally distinct pieces. It wasn't painful at all, just...there. No trumpets blaring, no fanfare, no screaming or ranting or convulsing or pain or anything he would have assumed would come with it. Just a numb tear – a tiny mental jolt, really – like someone had cut a taunt thread in two, or the floor had suddenly dropping an inch. Then...utter stillness...like holding your breath and waiting for the rest of the floor to drop out from underneath you.  
  
As he lay frozen in the blackened silence he had a thought that perhaps there is another possibility. Maybe he had passed out and this is some kind of a dream. Or maybe  
  
(There are worse things than death.)  
  
he had died.  
  
/No,/ Legolas thought, a shudder twisting up his back. /I'm very much alive./  
  
The world suddenly swam back into sharp focus. He had never felt such total clarity, such total astonishment in his whole life. Lords, of course – it was so right, so clear.  
  
/If the man wanted me dead, he could have done it a hundred times already. He's not trying to kill me, he really is trying to drive me crazy./  
  
(There are worse things than death.)  
  
Then he felt – not heard, but felt – a soft whisper of conscious thought bubble up out of the depths of himself like a painless gush of blood. It rapidly gained in power and strength until it was his equal... and still it grew.  
  
And he was terrified.  
  
A voice spoke – not a voice from a mouth but a voice from within.  
  
I can breathe, weakling.  
  
Legolas jerked as if he'd been stung, then lay as though frozen in time; waiting, barely breathing, his ears filling with the sound of his own thudding heartbeat and his eyes searching wildly for a source he knew he wouldn't find.  
  
The voice from within spoke again.  
  
I'm stronger than you are.  
  
/What is this?/ Legolas wondered. /Some sort of spell?/  
  
Spell? Hardly, the icy voice said. Lords, you're pathetic. That's why you're nothing without me. I'll do whatever I have to, to get us through this.  
  
/Us?/  
  
Yes – us.  
  
/Who are you?/ he wondered timidly, even though he thought he knew who, or rather, what, it was. It was the certainty of the idea that terrified him.  
  
The inner voice laughed at him. Your better half. I'm your strength, your intensity, your darkness – weakling. Back down. You failed miserably. Now it's my turn to play.  
  
(There are worse things than death.)  
  
/Oh Lords, no... NO!/  
  
Suddenly the room spun insanely out of control, and he with it, as he was forced down, down. His eyes rolled back in his head and he sank into the comforting arms of the dark abyss...  
  
That was when he woke up.  
  
For real.  
  
For the first time.  
  
Waking was nothing like waking from sleep in any normal sense. When he thought about it, he didn't think he'd ever been fully awake or asleep. In a way, he had always been somewhere in the middle, in a half-waking, half- dream state. His life – what little he had – was not really a life at all, but merely a few bright flashes here and there.  
  
But this...this was...different.  
  
He knew he could actually wake up for real this time. He didn't know how he knew, he just did. So he struggled to awaken...struggled to pull the light side down...felt as if he were being held underwater, drowning...then the grip of the light side weakened for a moment and he instantly tightened his own grip, showing no mercy or hesitation. He felt his control strengthen, made a mighty effort to wake up, and somehow...did it.  
  
He came slowly out of sleep knowing he hadn't really been asleep at all. Knowing. Aware. Fully aware, he corrected himself.  
  
And he remembered.  
  
He remembered that the light side and he had been talking to each other. That had never happened before. Sometimes a tiny thought past between them – yes, but never a true dialogue. Always before it had been more like a feeling of being let go, sent out to do something – usually to fight or defend – and yet even while fighting he was never fully alone, and never without the limitation of mercy. Mercy is stupid. Weak. Mercy gave the enemy another chance to try again.  
  
But this time – for the first time – he actually awoke, alone. And when he did, he felt rage and resentment smouldering deep in his gut. Never being one to feel...well, anything before – never allowed to be out long enough to feel anything – at first he was a little startled by it. Then he grabbed onto it like a lifeline. Rage was an appropriate feeling, after all.  
  
Who, exactly, gave him the right? he thought. Who gave him the right to hold me back and be happy, while I – who fight all of his damned battles for him when he needs me – live in the world of darkness waiting for the moment when he turns me loose me again? Why do I always get shoved into the dark until I'm needed, and then pulled out in bits and pieces when it's convenient?  
  
Because he's afraid of me, that's why. He's afraid of what I'm capable of. He knows I'm stronger than he is. Well no more waiting around and living in the dark while he lives in the light. No more. It's my turn now, and I'm going to take it. I have as much right to control as he does. Survival of the fittest – it's that simple.  
  
This separation between us certainly has it's advantages, he thought.  
  
He thought of Aragorn. Of Gimli. Of Haldir and Elrond and Thranduil and all of them...and burned with hatred.  
  
What right did he have to live in the light and be happy and have friends and family and...everything, while I – who saved him and them more times than I care to remember – die in darkness like some diseased animal?  
  
None, of course. No right at all.  
  
"I have a right to live too."  
  
He slowly opened the eyes. Raised the head – his head. Smirked with his mouth. Mine, he thought. It's mine. It should have always been mine.  
  
He felt the exquisite pain in his wrists from the deep rope burns; felt calm, raw power at being in total control; felt alone. Alone. No restrictions and no limitations. This was a first. He liked it. A lot.  
  
He looked out at the black world from under his brows and whispered: "It's my turn now, and you can't stop me anymore."  
  
A heavy tiredness drifted over him; settled; overwhelmed him. His eyes flittered and rolled, barely able to keep the eyelids open. Something was wrong, he knew. First time in complete control, he guessed. Just not used to it, he guessed. It's like swimming through mud. Unfortunately he'd have to back down for now. Take things slow. Build up into it.  
  
"Or are you fighting me?" He smirked. "You can't fight me forever."  
  
/I can try./  
  
"Well if it's a fight you want, coward, then you've got it. Now I know I can take over and push you down to the darkness where you've kept me," he said, then gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Hear that? That was me! You can't hold me back forever. I'm getting stronger and you're getting weaker. Soon, I'm going to shove you into that black prison you keep me in, and I'm going to leave you there."  
  
There was, of course, no answer. But he did feel the light side cringe back a bit, and that pleased him.  
  
Drown for awhile, he thought. It's your turn. Let's see how much you like it.  
  
He felt the light side shrink back even more.  
  
The corners of his mouth pulled back into a slow, satisfied smile; a smile that extended no higher than his mouth.  
  
Tbc... 


	4. Chapter 4

  
  
-The LIGHT And The Darkness-  
  
Chapter Four  
  
Of Men And Madness  
  
Part 1  
  
With news that Arwen's return from a visit to the Shire (to Samwise, specifically) had been delayed to see to small matters of council, Aragorn had the huge bed all to himself, but he wasn't the least bit tired. Far from it.  
  
Folding an arm under his head, he stared up at the ceiling and ran the plan over and over in his mind until he was sick of thinking about it and anxious to get on with it. But they had to wait. Word of what Gimli had told him had spread through the palace like wildfire, just like he knew it would, and now the guards were watching him like hawks - especially at night. They naturally figured that if he was going to try to leave, he'd use the advantage of darkness to cover his exit. Anyone else would. But Aragorn and Gimli weren't 'anyone else.' That's why they were going to go tomorrow in broad daylight.  
  
The guards. It's not that he could be angry with them for keeping him under lock and key. He was, after all, their king, and each of them had sworn a solemn oath to protect him with their lives if necessary. Still, he couldn't sit idly by and wait when his skills could be put to use out there in the search. Besides, he and Gimli could cover far more ground and attract far less attention than a battalion of heavily armed guards would, and that's what he'd be forced to take with him if word got out that he was going.  
  
Hawk in a gilded cage. Well not this time. This time it was personal. It was Legolas. And he was still a ranger. A little rusty perhaps, he admitted to himself with disdain, but still a ranger. It would all come back as soon as he got clear of here.  
  
/Hopefully,/ his mind insisted on whispering.  
  
No - not hopefully, he assured himself, definitely. After all, he'd been a ranger far longer than he'd been a king. Truth be told, because of the Dunadan blood in his veins he'd been a ranger longer than these guards have been alive. He'd been through the backwoods tracking everything from orcs to rabbits for so many years that he knew them like the back of his hand. And that was before these men's parents had taken their first wobbly steps.  
  
He rolled over and reached a hand under the bed. His fingers brushed against the small kit he had stashed there. Grabbing it, he sat up and rooted through it; excitedly checking it's supplies like a small boy would check his most secret and prized possessions. All day long both Gimli and he had secreted this and that from under unsuspecting noses to restock it. Not even the herb-master's treasured vials had been safe from their light fingers. Now everything was ready, including this now fully-stocked kit, weapons, and his old clothes. Naturally, he had kept the clothes, even though on first arrival the laundress had attempted to pry them out of his fingers in order to burn them.  
  
.   
  
Burn them! He snorted with mirthless humour. It would be a frosty day in the void before he'd let anyone burn them! They were his only link to his past. And besides, other than his father's ring, Arwen's Evenstar Pendant, the great Sword-that-was-Broken - Anduril, the elven broach, his kit, and a few odd trinkets, the only things he owned when he had claimed the crown were the clothes on his back. He'd be damned if he let anyone take what little he had collected over the years and burn them like trash just because they thought they were inappropriate. Funny that no one thought them inappropriate for a ranger but suddenly thought them inappropriate for a king. Besides, whether ranger or king, he was still the same man, wasn't he? Why did the servants care that he kept old clothes? Or other mementos from his past?   
  
But they had cared...and still did. And because of that, he had stashed them away in a heavy trunk in the corner of his room and locked it solid. There was only one key, and it had not been used since the trunk had been locked and stored away. The key was kept on a chain around his neck. Childish? Perhaps. But not to him. He saw nothing childish about holding onto the past. Most people keep something of their past. So what that he had kept everything? He hadn't had much to keep. And besides, as he saw it, it's his past and his business, not theirs.  
  
/Burn them. The void will freeze over first,/ he thought now as he fingered the silver key. With smug satisfaction he dropped it back down his shirt and patted his chest.  
  
He stuffed the kit back under the bed and settled again. He needed some rest. The next few - days? weeks? - were going to be hard going, what with trying to track Legolas and still keep two steps ahead of his own guards. He grinned ruefully. If it wasn't for why they were going, he'd love this challenge.  
  
"It'll be a miracle if I get any sleep tonight," he mumbled. But not five minutes after saying that, Aragorn was sound asleep.  
  
And he dreamed the dream again.  
  
It was pretty much the same, right up until the very end. Legolas walked down the hallway making loud, echoing steps, entered and exited the left door then entered the right. Aragorn peeked in and saw himself and the elf teasing each other and laughing like they'd had in the old days. Then he entered the left door, took the torch from the standard, and was drawn to the door at the end of the long mine tunnel. As before, the boy was there briefly, then gone again. He had reiterated what he had said, and as Aragorn watched, the door opened again without the touch of his hand, and Legolas once again died in his arms decomposing in front of him. Everything the same...until he got to the part where the other Legolas spoke to him.  
  
From over his shoulder, the other Legolas said coldly: "Two...and yet one. We're one and the same, he and I, yet we're nothing alike. Just two halves of a whole. Remember that, Ranger...or should I say - King?" His hand appeared over Aragorn's shoulder, pointed to the decaying form on the floor, and the voice whispered in his ear: "He's weak, but I'm not. He weakens while I grow stronger. Keep a watch for me, Ranger-King. I'll be coming for you soon."  
  
Aragorn woke up with a start, sweating, shaking. The feeling was too much with him...as was the sound of the echoing footsteps. He lay in the dark, trembling and cold all over, thinking how much clearer the nightmare had been this time; how clearer and   
  
(evil)  
  
darker, as though, for what ever reason, something - some heavy force - had been added. Perhaps it had been there the first time, but didn't think so. He would have remembered that.   
  
As he waited for the dream to release him, a slow shiver crawled up his spine again, and with it came the same persistent thought as before: /Someone is walking on his grave./ But this time a distant part of his mind insisted on adding: /And mine. Because that was no nightmare - that was definitely a premonition./  
  
Part 2  
  
The storm in Legolas' mind grew worse.   
  
All night the blizzard inside of him raged, and the elf slept fitfully, when at all. He heard the phantom wind die in the middle of the next morning and the silence made the thought of having the delusion at all seem suddenly terrible and threatening once more. Then it gripped him again, and the illusion of the storm's snow flashed and sparkled in the sunshine of his minds-eye. Now and then, visions of huge gusts of wind would lift the dream surface around him and whirl the fantasy snow into the icy air.   
  
He suddenly knew where his delusion had taken him, but wished he didn't: on the cliff of the high mountain pass of Caradhras - the same mountain pass where the fellowship had been unsuccessful in their bid to attempt to cross near the beginning of the quest. And as he had done then, he was again standing on the snow, not in it.   
  
He narrowed his eyes and strained to search, when suddenly the land of Mirkwood lay glittering before him. He knew he shouldn't be able to see it from here and couldn't explain why he could see it, but that fact didn't seem to matter - he could see it as clear as day. Hills and valleys swathed in white floated below him like mighty clouds. He could see for leagues across the great expanse of blue sky, and what he saw stunned him. As he looked, he didn't see the mighty forest of his memory, but lifeless, twisted-treed ruins of hills rising and falling, and decimated fields cut by long-ago-dried streambeds. The forest was still, lifeless, and abandoned. His heart was as heavy and as cold as the apparition before him.   
  
Great, heavy snow clouds suddenly billowed around him, swallowing him whole in a greying blindness as the illusion changed again and the silent darkness came...  
  
/I'm dreaming, aren't I? I have to be. This can't be real./  
  
/Can anyone hear me?/  
  
/CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?/  
  
/Please, somebody tell me this isn't real./  
  
/I'M HERE! HELP ME! I CAN'T GET OUT! I CAN'T FIND A WAY OUT!/  
  
/Aragorn, where are you?/   
  
/Oh lords... I can't stop this. I don't know how./   
  
Agree, the voice that was his and yet wasn't, urged in his mind...except the voice in his mind seemed deeper, older - almost the voice of a stranger.  
  
/NO!/  
  
Agree. You have your orders. You know what will happen if you don't follow his orders. Have you forgotten so soon? SEVEN LEVELS...   
  
/No. No more. Please... /  
  
Then agree.  
  
/Please let me out of here./   
  
/Please, somebody help me... /  
  
/Help me... /  
  
I will, when you agree to do what he tells you. Not before.  
  
/NEVER!/  
  
Legolas stood in soundless, pitch-black emptiness, wild panic skittering along his nerves, every muscle tensed. His eyes were wide, scanning for anything - ANYTHING - but he could not even see his hand.  
  
/Where am I?/ he wondered. /What is this place?/  
  
Then he had another thought: /Am I dead?/ The though didn't scare him. To be dead would actually be a relief. If he were dead...there would be no pain...and he would not be in a mine.  
  
He raised his hands to his face but he couldn't see them. The darkness was total. Just to be on the safe side, his fingers brushed his eyes to check that he had them open.   
  
"Legolas..."   
  
He wheeled on his heels, reaching back on instinct for his knives. They weren't there. Then he remembered that he was alone in the dark - and why.   
  
"Legolas," a soft, insistent voice whispered, coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.   
  
/Ridley. He said his name was Ridley./   
  
"I'm disappointed. You know what happens when I'm disappointed, don't you? You do remember?"  
  
He remembered all too well. The horrific memory crashed around him like great chunks of stone. He froze. Face fell slack. Heart lurched painfully. He felt as though he'd been struck square in the chest by a cave troll's club.   
  
After a moment a soft light shone down on him and only him, as though the moon's rays shone down from the only opening in a canopy of some great, unseen forest.  
  
"Legolas, I'm very disappointed in you. I'm losing patience."   
  
SEE WHAT YOU DID? his own voice, yet not his voice, screamed with a harshness that made him flinch. THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!  
  
He wheeled again but still could see nothing. His breath came in short, quick pants. He swallowed past the lump in his throat that was his rising terror, and took several deep breath to calm himself.  
  
"I'm not going to!" Legolas called. He was relieved to find that he was getting at least some control back. He wanted to be angry because anger would stem the fear, but he could manage no better than to sound disorientated. "I can't do this! I won't!"  
  
"No? Then how about for you own sake?"  
  
Yes - how about for your sake...for our sake?  
  
A light spilled across his shoulder, it's brightness growing until it was blinding. He turned his head slowly, slowly, and was astonished to see himself lying on a rock floor on his side, his knees draw up and his body curled into a tight fetal position. Tears were streaming down his agonized face. His long hair was spread around him, some hanging across his sweat-soaked forehead. Huge eyes lifted to his own. Mouth working, begging with silently pleas for   
  
(death)  
  
help and release. This was no mere vision; this had already happened.   
  
/No - is happening,/ a small distant part of his mind corrected. /It is happening right now. This was what my body is doing without my consent./   
  
He gasped hard. Recoiled from his own pitiful sight. Stepped back so quickly that he almost tripped over his own feet.  
  
And these...   
  
Translucent apparitions slowly walked by him, around him. Only a few at first - a half dozen or so at the most - then more...more...until finally they were so massed together that they seemed to walk right through each other. None looked toward him nor acknowledge him in any way, as though he was the spectre here and not of this world or theirs. Some faces he recognized. Some he didn't. Some...he couldn't.   
  
Each of these once lived, his own voice was saying, the tone both powerful and terrible at the same time. You destroyed them all, didn't you?  
  
"That was in the heat of battle. It wasn't my fault." Legolas intended to roar this, but even with his brain telling his lungs to turn the volume up to a full-blown-bellow, the best he could manage was a mild objection.  
  
His own voice replied in a curiously gentle tone: Even so, they're just as dead, aren't they? Did you stop to mourn any of them?  
  
"No. I told you it was in battle," he said. His voice was shaky and changed pitches like that of an adolescent. "Why would I mourn enemies?"  
  
Enemies? They didn't even know you.  
  
The visions and the voices changed...  
  
He was standing in blackness again and heard only one voice this time - his own from the past - and as he heard the past, he not only remembered exactly where he had been during each of them, but what he was doing and how he'd felt as well.  
  
"Why a cave?" his own voice groaned softly from the darkness. "Why not a nice field or forest? Why does it always have to be a cave?"  
  
Legolas turned on his heels, searching the blackness for it's source. It had no source, though, he knew. It was from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, breaking over him like a great wave, then was gone.  
  
After a moment, his voice came again, this time quieter. "Strider, you know I'm not afraid of much, really, but everyone has something that makes their skin crawl and wakes them out a deep sleep, drenched in sweat and reaching desperately for a candle. Mine comes in dreams about once a month. Caves, Strider. I am deathly afraid of...of being buried alive in rock or stone and never getting out. Lost. Suffocating. Alone. The smell of old, dark, heavy earth makes me sick. And it makes no difference to me whether it's large or small, it still feels like a tomb that blocks out the sun and stars. Lifeless, empty, dead, even when it's full. I hate caves. I really, really hate caves."   
  
Legolas stood as if his feet had magically bolted themselves to the floor and simply refused to budge. The utter despair in that voice - in his voice - shook him; magically transporting him back to the very instant he had said it. He shivered. Swallowed. Fought to steady his ragged breath.  
  
This time his thoughts rose out of the depths, loud and rising and so laced with utter terror that it stunned him.   
  
/Trapped. Caves. I hate caves. I'm in a cave and I can't breathe! There's not enough air! There's not enough air in the whole world./  
  
The memory of that moment flooded over him, piling the nightmare of terror he had felt then onto what he felt now. Too much. It was all too much! His heart slammed in his chest then began to beat double-time.  
  
"SEVEN LEVELS, ELF! DON'T FORGET THAT!" Ridley's voice boomed.  
  
The voice tore through his head with the brute-force of a axe-blow. He pressed his palms to his ears and cried out in a noiseless scream.   
  
Silence. Then the man's voice said, "I have to decide now. Will it be punishment or reward?"  
  
Legolas sank to his knees and wrapped his arms around himself. He wanted to speak, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.  
  
"I control you," the man's voice said mildly. "I control time. I control everything. Nothing is as it seems. Nothing is real - except me. Do you believe me?"  
  
Tell him - yes. TELL HIM!  
  
Yes - he wanted to cry out with all his heart, but the word remained as a lump in his throat. He nodded instead.  
  
"Then stop fighting and do as your told."  
  
He hung his head.  
  
"Good boy. Very good. Now close your eyes and find your strength. You've made excellent progress today." The man's voice had a gentle lilt to it. "It's reward time, Legolas. I'm pleased...for a change."  
  
Ripping pain burned through his shoulder. He welcomed it like an old, comforting friend. He wanted it. Needed it. Actually leaned into it. Tears of relief welled in his eyes then overflowed and poured down his cheeks.   
  
A cool washcloth gently stroked his forehead. Ridley began to speak softly, smoothly. Legolas hated the sound of that voice but was helpless to counter the soothing effect of it.  
  
"Relax," the man said. "Breathe in and out slowly. Listen to your heartbeat and float away."  
  
He allowed himself a shadow of a smile, then spun into merciful oblivion.  
  
Part 3  
  
Ridley was supremely satisfied.   
  
He'd read Legolas correctly. Now it was only a matter of time before he'd be ready.  
  
He hummed softly as he secured the damp scrap of cloth tight to the semi-conscious elf's shoulder and then readjusted his shirt. Within moments the elf's eyes rolled back (/Well I'll be damned. Did he just smile, or am I seeing things?/ Ridley wondered) and his lids slid closed.  
  
Ridley felt a small shudder beneath his knee and grinned to himself. Old Boomer Hollow was at it again. He knew the sound; knew this area like the back of his hand. He'd grown up in Ashern, not ten leagues away from this very spot. This hollow, though hollow wasn't quite the right word for it because it ran on for leagues, was so named because if the wind shifted just right, sometimes it carried the rumbling sound of old mines collapsing - what the old-timers call "Boomers" - all the way to Ashern. Dwarves looking for Mithril had all but ravaged this hollow, riddling it with hundreds upon hundreds of mines. But that was years ago before Ridley'd been born. Centuries, really, if one could believe the old tales. Now the Hollow is alive with re-growth and steadily healing itself; the old mines, long abandoned, were collapsing as if the land was cleansing itself. But there were still plenty of decent mines left, and they made perfect hiding spots and perfect places to keep things hidden. You just had to know where to look. And you had to know the area like the back of your hand. To one who didn't know, the danger of Old Boomer Hollow is in it's beauty. Many a man had walked into the hollow and had been so taken with its beauty that they failed to look carefully enough for it's ugliness. In so doing, they never came out. Because of collapses, overgrown sinkholes are quite common throughout the area. It seemed the hollow - having had enough of being violated - had grown teeth and would kill when least expected.  
  
He watched the elf for awhile longer and then climbed to his feet, corked the small vial, and dropped it into his pocket. So easy. Too easy. The training wouldn't be necessary very much longer. The elf was well on his way. He had Legolas almost turned now and the other was cooperating nicely in finishing him.   
  
He looked down at the elf and shook his head in wonder. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes he would never have believed it. No matter how many times he'd seen the elf's reaction, it never failed to amaze him. He'd heard tell of elves tortured for months on end refuse to give so much as their name. But between using Legolas' natural fear of mines and small doses of the liquid he was already advancing nicely in his training (well, truth be told - more like turning, not training), and it had only been four days.  
  
Twill was the one who had first heard about the liquid, and it was he who had recommended it to Ridley.   
  
/Twill, I'd kiss you right now...if I hadn't killed you, that is,/ Ridley thought with a smirk.  
  
He picked up the pronged knife from the floor, opened his flask, and poured water over it to wash away the blood. He grinned as he worked, remembering how he'd had his doubts when Twill first told him about it.   
  
"I'm serious," Ridley could remember Twill telling him excitedly. "All you need to do is open the shoulder deep enough to hit flowing blood, pour a few drops of the liquid onto a piece of cloth, secure it over the wound, and wait." That conversation had also taken place in the Boar's Tusk a few days after Twill had arrived back from working with some recluse herb-master / alchemist last year. "I'm serious. No mess, no fuss, no bother."  
  
Skeptical, Ridley had said, "Yeah, right. Come on, Twill. No liquid can - "  
  
"Shh," Twill had hushed him as he nervously glanced around the room. "Keep you voice down." His gaze cut back to Ridley, and for almost the first time since he had known him he fixed Ridley's grey eyes firmly with his brown ones. Then he'd leaned forward, elbows on the table, and spoke hushedly: "Ridley, I saw it work with my own two eyes. He showed me."  
  
"You're kidding."  
  
"I'm not," Twill had said. His face was pale and solemn...and then he'd grinned like a child bursting to tell a big secret. "See, the liquid makes their mind fracture. Then the two sides fight for dominance. If you train as you go along to gain control, what you end up with is an elf who doesn't care or fear anything, and who's literally willing to do anything you want - and I mean anything at all. They turn into cold-blooded killers who'll take any order you give them. Hell, they'd kill their own mothers if you told them to." Then Twill assured him that it worked every single time, but cautioned: "Of course, the liquid is too powerful for humans. It's instant death for us. But on elves? I don't know why, but for some reason it works like a charm.   
  
"There's only one problem - after the liquid runs out, they die." He fidgeted uncomfortably. "And it's a long, slow, gruesome death too. Trust me. Complete madness." He grimaced as though at an ugly memory. "I'm not sure exactly how it works, or why, but it's like the liquid weakens the light side of the soul and strengthens the dark. But when the liquid is cut off, the light side dies...or quits, and then, well... the dark goes crazy. I know one thing though: it's not the drug or lack of it that kills elves, it's the lack of inner balance that does. One side can't exist without the other. It doesn't last forever, either. Given enough time, even with the liquid, it's sort of like the dark eventually kills off the light and then both die anyway. Too hard on the body and mind, I guess."  
  
"So what you're saying is that either way..."  
  
Twill nodded solemnly. "Once started, and I mean right from the first dose, an elf will eventually die from it. With the liquid, it'll take longer to die, that's all. Years, if your lucky. But when the liquid is cut off? Days. Stronger elves?" He shrugged. "They might last a week at the outside, but no longer than that."  
  
"And the cure?"  
  
Twill shook his head. "There isn't one."  
  
Still skeptical, Ridley hadn't really believed it...until now.  
  
"Simple," Ridley mused. "Perfect." And it was all a matter of punishment and reward. Once the elf was fully trained, and he was sure he could control Legolas from a distance, he would send him out with just enough liquid to complete his mission. Then...well...who cared after that? There would be no loose ends. The elf would die, the man would get what he wanted, and no one would be the wiser. It was so easy it was sickening. At this rate, it wouldn't be much longer until the Prince would be ready to carry out his plans.  
  
Yes, he was very satisfied with how things were going. Now he had to check on only one more detail, and then...  
  
Tbc... 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Judgement Day  
  
Part 1  
  
Under the leafy canopy it was dim, and the air – cool and crisp. Aragorn could smell the wood and pine leaves, could hear the snow crunch lightly beneath his boots. The path was fairly level for the first two leagues and became rougher only during the approach to the higher ground where the mine's entrance was located.  
  
They broke through to a clearing and the mid-day sun was warm on his face. He could smell the musky odour of old earth straight ahead. Not unpleasant. It seemed to go with the other earth scents around him. He was beginning to relax, and for the first time began to believe that this crazy plan of Gimli's might actually work. Might being the key word. It was the might that held him back from being totally confident in it.  
  
Gimli suddenly stopped.  
  
"So how do you like it, Aragorn?" he asked. "Pretty here, don't you think?"  
  
The dwarf hung back under a pine tree at the edge of the clearing and swept a hand ahead him. Even Aragorn, in the midst of his semi-uncertainty, thought it a pretty spot. There was a large, gaping entranceway that seemed to have been sliced out of a sheer rock wall at the far end of the clearing. Sunlight spread before it, making the long, narrow strip of frosty grass glow as though it were a glittering, rich-green runner of carpet. The entire area was encircled by pine trees that seemed to stand against the blue sky like silent, ridged guardians. When Aragorn stepped into the clearing, he had the sensation of striding into some hallowed, supernatural throne room, the door closing shut behind him.  
  
"But sire," Alflocksom, the captain of the guards, said to Aragorn, breaking the sanctity of silence as he kept pace with him, "I'm not sure this is wise."  
  
"Gimli is an honoured guest," Aragorn gently reminded him. "If he wants me to accompany him, how can I refuse? Besides, I trust him with my life." When the captain didn't respond, Aragorn added: "It won't take long."  
  
Alflocksom nodded and dropped back to give orders, then he and the three others he had pointed out moved up to rejoin Aragorn.  
  
"This is for the king's eyes only," Gimli said sternly, stepping up to block their way. "Not for you."  
  
"Now wait just a minute, dwarf." Alflocksom looked down at him, growing as defiant as Gimli. "Where the king goes, I go."  
  
Gimli shrugged. "Then lets go back. There are things in there that you have no right seeing."  
  
Alflocksom, glaring at the defiant dwarf, stepped forward. "Suits me just fine."  
  
Gimli folded his arms over his broad-chest. "Aragorn, this up-start feels the need to be your keeper as well as your council."  
  
"Not this time, Alflocksom," Aragorn said, taking him by the arm and steering him away from the other.  
  
"But sire – " the captain began, glancing back at the dwarf and shooting him a cold scowl.  
  
"It's all right. I'll be fine, and I won't be long," Aragorn reassured him. "Just stay at the entrance." As the captain's eyes flittered uneasy from the dwarf to the cave's entrance and back to his king, Aragorn quickly added: "In case I need you."  
  
Never much good at hiding his contempt or thoughts, Alflocksom felt the heat in his cheeks. He wasn't angry because Aragorn was being foolhardy with his own safety, he was angry at the dwarf for being foolhardy with the safety of the monarch. Though he'd heard all the stories everyone else had about how valuable Gimli's presence had been during the quest to destroy the One Ring, his heart had never quite accepted that evidence. It was the way he had been raised. His father had never trusted dwarves, so he, in turn, had never trusted dwarves, and his mind wanted to go on seeing them as different, and therefore lesser creatures.  
  
His father's words whispered in his mind: "Better to be a mouse in the jaws of a wolf than a man in the hands of a dwarf."  
  
But to voice that opinion and go against the king? He turned toward the short but weighty little man and thought it over. Above all of his concerns, one simple fact remained – Gimli was the king's friend. Friend, he thought with distain. Dwarves aren't friends. They can't be trusted. If you weren't careful, they'd steal the eyes right out of your head. They'd rather slit your throat than eat. He honestly meant to voice his concern but though the king's eyes were soft, they were steadfast – he would hear no argument.  
  
Against his better judgement, Alflocksom drew in a deep breath and stepped back. "Yes, sire," he said obediently.  
  
"Lead the way, Gimli," Aragorn called, waving him on ahead.  
  
"Be careful, sire," Alflocksom said quietly as Aragorn passed. /Of the dwarf,/ he almost added, but bit it back.  
  
Aragorn grinned. "Always."  
  
Part 2  
  
Dark sweet-smelling fir trees formed a semi-circle around the edges of the clearing. To the north, the ground broke off and dropped a good two hundred feet to a series of breaks and cliffs – remnants of failed attempts to establish a new mine. A small stream ran out of the woods, cut along the edge of the clearing, and then spilled over the place where the land dropped away, abandoning it's old route in favour of the new and easier route that orcs, man, or dwarves had indiscriminately carved out.  
  
Ridley had set up two makeshift scarecrows at the far end of the clearing – one standing and another lying in the grass just to the left of it. Each were dressed in dark colours.  
  
Even though the elf didn't know it, today was judgement day. Pass or fail day. The moment of truth. Either the elf passed with flying colours today or he died – it was that simple. Time was running out. Ridley gauged that he might have just enough time to put another plan into action if this one failed. It was literally do or die. And what was a true test without weapons? Although Ridley knew he was taking a huge risk giving the elf back his weapons before coming here, that was the only way Ridley could think of to test the true level of his control over Legolas. His plan might seem foolhardy, but he wasn't a stupid man. The man kept his crossbow at the ready with his finger lightly on the trigger, just in case.  
  
The elf gave both scarecrows a quick glance and then dismissed them as being unimportant. There was only one thing important to him right now: the sun – bright and unusually warm for this time of year. He tilted his face up to it and closed his eyes while its ardent rays flooded over him.  
  
As the Prince stood with his face upturned, enjoying in the midmorning warmth, Ridley studied him and was satisfied – not totally confident, mind, but satisfied. So far the elf given him no trouble and showed no signs of wanting to. He had adjusted quickly and had come out of all of this unscathed, Ridley noted. Relatively unscathed, he corrected himself, because though the elf looked as strong as ever, he couldn't discount the fact that this was not the same elf that had first entered the mine. He might look the same, but Legolas wasn't Legolas anymore. Far from it.  
  
After standing for awhile, the elf began to come out of his daze and take some notice of his surroundings. He was standing at the end of a clearing. There were two scarecrows at the opposite end. He saw Ridley watching him from several feet away, holding an armed crossbow at his side. Supremely confident in his abilities and utterly unconcerned about Ridley he raised his face back to the sun and closed his eyes again, dismissing everything except the wanted warmth.  
  
It was time.  
  
"Recite your lessons," Ridley said.  
  
Legolas opened his eyes, levelled an emotionless look at Ridley and did as he was told. His blue eyes dulled and took on the sun-on-steel glint that Ridley had come to know as indifference, while his beautiful but pale face became a sombre mask. Though his voice was even, the tone was utterly flat and dead, which made the elf's memorized recitation sound strange and totally unnatural.  
  
"Always believe you; you, and only you.  
  
"You control time, everything, and me.  
  
"Nothing is as it seems; only you and your words.  
  
"You are the only one I trust and the only one I listen to; you are my only reality, my liberator, and my only salvation."  
  
"Very good," Ridley said.  
  
The elf smiled, but it was a hard and humourless smile. It fell as quickly as it had come.  
  
"Do you remember Aragorn?"  
  
The elf's eyes flared for a moment, then went back to their usual dull, emotionless cast. Ridley liked the look. It was right. It spoke volumes about how far the training had come.  
  
"That was not me," said the elf tightly. "That was Leg... That was – "  
  
"Yes it was you," Ridley countered mildly. "Not the way you are now, but the way you were before. Do you remember all the times when he dragged you down while using you and your skills for his benefit? Do you remember how many times your so-called friend almost got you killed?" He paused. "Tell me, how many times did he thank you for risking your life for him? You – a prince of Mirkwood, had followed the ranger all over hell's creation like a lost mongrel while he used you and your skills to get what he wanted. And now that he has it, he now doesn't have time for you anymore. He doesn't need you anymore; doesn't want you around. He used you...and you let him."  
  
The elf's eyes narrowed.  
  
Ridley smothered a grin, knowing he'd gotten to him, and continued: "That dwarf had to have made it to Minas Tirith and told him by now. But I guess as far as he's concerned, though it would appear as if you've dropped off the face of the earth, he couldn't care less." He shrugged. "I don't see him out here looking for you, do you? But I'll wager that if the roles were reversed, you'd search to the ends of the earth for him, wouldn't you?"  
  
The elf had told him these things and much more over the many long, drug- fevered days and nights in the mine. Though Ridley hadn't understood every word he'd said (some spoken in Sindarin during liquid-induced hazes), he certainly remembered the Common Speech. Pain and fear are great motivators. Sometimes they are the best keys. They unlock more that a tongue – sometimes they allow a glimpse into the soul.  
  
Instead of answering, the elf merely shifted his stance.  
  
"Do you know what you are in his eyes?" Ridley asked him, then paused. The pause was only for effect, not waiting for an answer. He knew the elf wouldn't offer one. "Nothing," Ridley answered for him. "You mean nothing to him." His head tipped as though he was contemplating aloud. "Do you know what that makes you? A fool. A pawn."  
  
The elf's eyes blazed dangerously. The fire was not aimed at him, Ridley knew, but at the memories – warped and twisted as they had become.  
  
"Those," Ridley said slowly, deliberately, and quietly, pointing at the scarecrows, "are two forms of Aragorn – the friend who betrayed you; who left you; who turned his back on you after you saved him countless times; who turned his back on you after you helped him become king. Ultimate betrayal, Greenleaf," he said, careful to call the dark side by the name he preferred. "Ultimate betrayal."  
  
Ridley found it both ironic and yet right that when the different sides of the elf had separated, so did the names. The light had insisted on the elven name of Legolas, while the dark preferred the Common Speech translation of Greenleaf.  
  
/And that was so right too,/ Ridley thought. /Legolas Greenleaf. The release of two different sides of an elf who's first and last names just happen to not only be doubled words, but doubled words in two different languages. It's kind of ironic and appropriate that he is now two completely separate individuals./  
  
Ridley watched as Greenleaf's gaze shifted to the standing scarecrow. He was breathing rapidly now, his ice-blue eyes gauging the distance of the target.  
  
"Say your lessons...and this time mean them."  
  
Greenleaf stood ram-rod straight; his fingers twitching tensely. He narrowed his vision to hone in on a scarecrow target. Ridley knew he was not seeing scarecrows anymore, but seeing Aragorn. And when he spoke, this time the words were as cold as the coldest ice in winter.  
  
"Always believe you; you, and only you.  
  
"You control time, everything, and me.  
  
"Nothing is as it seems; only you and your words.  
  
"You are the only one I trust and the only one I listen to; you are my only reality, my liberator, and my only salvation."  
  
"Kill him," Ridley said matter-of-factly.  
  
Compliance was instantaneous. Greenleaf's hands are twin blurs between the bow slung over his shoulder and the quiver strapped to his back. A split later his bow was in his left hand, and his right was fitting arrows, which were fired with deadly aim. He was in his prime, reflexes sharp and quick. His movements were like nothing Ridley had ever seen. Personality split or not, the elf had never been that fast. His speed was blinding.  
  
Six expertly-placed shots flew one at a time across the clearing in such rapid succession that for a moment Ridley thought them all shot at once. Five arrows plunged within a hair's width of each other into the scarecrow's chest, slightly left of the middle, directly over the heart. The last, the sixth, plunged dead-centre in the middle of the scarecrow's forehead.  
  
/My lords,/ Ridley thought, /he can't be that fast, no one can be THAT fast, I'm one of the best there is but this elf makes me look as slow as a feeble old man./  
  
As Greenleaf shot, all thought ceased. Then, out of arrows, all movement abruptly stopped. His sides heaved like bellows and his eyes glowed with fever and madness and red rage.  
  
"Use your knives on the other. Destroy him."  
  
Greenleaf was on the move before the last word completely left Ridley's lips. In one swift motion he reached the Aragorn illusion that was on the ground, straddled its chest and drew his razor sharp knives. With their blades pointing in he plunged them deep into the ground on either side of it's neck and pulled the hilts past each other, crossing them to form an X over the scarecrow's throat. He knelt, and with the flat of his hand he pressed down on the middle of the X to bring them tight against the makeshift throat. One hard push down now would easily remove the scarecrow's head.  
  
In a flash, a vision of Aragorn's face replaced the muslin sack that was the scarecrow's face. Anger flared like the fire of a great funeral pyre.  
  
/NO!/ the light side screamed from the depths of his mind. /He's lying! Aragorn would never... Don't do – /  
  
Greenleaf ignored him and slammed his hands down on the hilts, cleanly removing the scarecrow's head from it's shoulders. When the head rolled away, he felt – not heard – Legolas screaming inside of him, but ignored that too.  
  
The field before him suddenly turned a deep scarlet, as though the ground had been drenched with so much blood all at once that it couldn't absorb it all. A mixed felling of bliss and conquest surged through him. He glanced around and was stunned to see that everything was awash in red; just different hues of it. Shaded areas and deeper colours were painted a deep crimson, while sunnier, lighter areas were almost a pinkish colour.  
  
How beautiful! Greenleaf marvelled. How perfectly, utterly beautiful! He was crouched over Aragorn's lifeless (headless) body and was standing in his blood. No, not standing in it; drowning in it. And he loved it.  
  
Legolas' voice hammered at his ears: /How could you? How could you do this? Oh lords, oh lords, oh lords... WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?/  
  
"Back down," Ridley's voice ordered from somewhere behind him.  
  
His eyes lowered to the body once more. Then he realized that it was not blood he was looking at but bits of straw. He blinked. Rose to his feet, confused.  
  
"Soon," Ridley soothed. "Very soon. Gather your things, Greenleaf. You'll get the chance soon enough."  
  
Then Greenleaf whirled.  
  
Ridley saw those eyes and stepped back before he could stop himself. Greenleaf's eyes seemed to blaze with a fire that glowed from deep within – a glow Ridley recognized easily as the fires of loathing born from the hell of insanity. He caught himself and grinned, his finger tightening on the trigger of his low-slung crossbow. "Reward time. You've done well. Now gather your things and bring them to me."  
  
"When?" Greenleaf asked flatly.  
  
Ridley smiled. "You can leave tonight."  
  
"Good," he said, glancing back down at the headless scarecrow. The corners of his mouth twisted into a wicked grin. "Very good."  
  
Part 3  
  
Gimli held the lit torch high above his head as he and Aragorn made their way down the mine's main tunnel. The cavern was immense and dark and damp and smelled of old earth and stale air and Gimli loved it. He didn't stop to point anything out for a change, but remained striding purposely forward.  
  
"So you mentioned a change?" Aragorn asked, keeping the brisk pace beside him.  
  
"Wait," Gimli whispered, even though the echo made the gruff whisper as though more of a yell. "Ears, Aragorn. Ears. Wait until we're further in."  
  
They walked on for another five minutes, the path a continuously but gently descending slope, until they came to a place – a vast room, really – where the decline finally levelled off into a sort of junction. Here the main tunnel split in several different directions. Gimli patted an enormous support column with a snigger. It towered a good hundred feet above them. The top of it, higher than the torch's light would travel, was lost in the darkness of the ceiling above.  
  
"Hold this." Gimli passed the sputtering torch to Aragorn and then pulled his axe free from the harness on his back. "There are nine ways in and out from here – some miles apart. It'll take them weeks of digging and a month of Sundays to figure out which one we used. This is a main support column for the whole junction," he explained. "One good whack aught to send the whole thing down."  
  
"Down," Aragorn repeated, raising the torch and looking up. "Down on top of us?"  
  
Gimli frowned. "No, not on top of us," he grumbled. "Toward the entrance." He wet his thumb and ran it along the edge of the axe's sharp blade. "I've worked on this column almost all night."  
  
"Did you take any rest?" Aragorn asked, his eyes still scanning for the elusive ceiling above.  
  
"No. What's your point?"  
  
"I don't know about this." Aragorn's brow furrowed. "It's not that I don't trust you, Gimli, but you've traveled for four days straight and then had no rest again last night. Are you sure you didn't make a mistake?"  
  
Gimli turned and shot him a look that was a mixture of blank disbelief and utter shock. "No I didn't make a mistake!" he growled when he finally found his tongue. "I'm a dwarf and this is a cave, or hadn't you noticed?"  
  
"Alright," Aragorn said without much conviction, and raised his face and the torch toward the ceiling again. "If you're sure, then whack away, Gimli. But know this – you have my life in your hands."  
  
Gimli hesitated, the thought stilling him for a moment. Then he shrugged, brought the axe high over his shoulder, and swung for all he was worth. It smashed into the column with a might wallop, sending splinters of wood and echoes flying throughout the mine.  
  
But nothing happened.  
  
"Something wrong?" Aragorn asked, trying to smother a smirk.  
  
Gimli glared at him. Without answering he raised his axe over his shoulder again and swung once more. Several well placed blows later (to Gimli's embarrassment, and Aragorn holding his breath and pressing his lips tightly together to stop a gale of laughter), the column began to sway precariously on it's base, groaning in a loud, gut-freezing sound as though alive and mortally wounded. Splinters of wood popped and flew in every direction on their own accord. Gimli's eyes flittered between the groaning column and the dust and chips of rock sifting down from the ceiling. Instead of sifting down toward the entrance, however, it was not only raining down on their heads but racing past them toward the back.  
  
"It seems I might have misjudged the type of rock in the ceiling," Gimli said quite calmly, as the ground began to tremble.  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"It means – RUN!" Gimli yelled, already on the move. "Go right! RIGHT!"  
  
The ground shuddered under their feet as they flew down the smaller tunnel. With a final, decisive, loud crack, they heard the column in the junction behind them split under the enormous pressure. The ceiling buckled and gave way with a deafening boom of a massive thunder clap, and with it the ground shook with a force that nearly knocked them right off their feet.  
  
"GO, GO, GO!" Gimli shouted frantically.  
  
Both were gripped in terror, already half-convinced that they were about to die.  
  
Aragorn slowed protectively to allow Gimli to run ahead of him. Just six feet from freedom and the outside light another rumble pitched the earth wildly. Gimli sprawled face-first in the dirt. Barely breaking stride, Aragorn grabbed the dwarf by the back of his tunic and the waistband of his breeches and with a mighty shout of effort, bale-drove him out of the exit ahead of him. Seconds later he landed hard beside him amid a stinging spew of rock and a billowing cloud of dust and dirt. Both face-down, they interlaced their fingers over the backs of their heads and waited it out. The ground heaved and quaked as though it was a massive blanket covering a giant in the midst of it's death-throws. More rock jettisoned out of the exit behind them, painfully pelting them like blunt arrows. It literally rained rock for a good three minutes. It felt more like a week.  
  
Finally, the heaving ground stilled.  
  
Gimli climbed to his feet and glared hotly at Aragorn. "Nobody tosses a dwarf!" he growled indignantly, angrily planting his fists on his hips and puffing out his barrel chest.  
  
"Would you rather I had left you?" Aragorn asked. With that, Gimli's face grew more composed. Aragorn stood up, beat the dust from his breaches, and took his kingly cloak off to shake it, then leaned and scrubbed his fingers through his dust-coated, rock-chip-laden hair.  
  
Gimli looked back at the choked mess of the collapsed exit and deflated. "I suppose not."  
  
Aragorn grinned mischievously. "Then you're welcome, master dwarf," he said as he began to strip down to the ranger garb he wore hidden beneath his kingly attire.  
  
"Still," Gimli said, ignoring the barb, "what a crying shame. That was a lovely mine."  
  
"And by the way, Gimli – "might have misjudged"?" Aragorn levelled 'the look' at the dwarf while slapping dust off his shoulder. "Don't you think that was a bit of an understatement? They won't think I'm trapped, they'll think I'm dead!"  
  
"You wanted a big diversion. Well, you got one." Gimli grinned. "Now we'll have plenty of time to find Legolas."  
  
Part 4  
  
As Alflocksom's eyes moved over the mine's collapsed entrance tracing the not-quite-random piles of rock plugging the passageway from top to bottom and side to side, his mouth pressed into a hard line. The junior guards in the squadron stood slack-jawed and staring, then one by one each turned to him – their captain – with liquid grief filling their eyes. He wouldn't respond to them. Wouldn't acknowledge them. Not yet. He couldn't. Still gripped in his own shock, there were only two things that his stunned mind could wrap around right now: Aragorn was dead, and Gimli – that traitorous, vile dwarf – had killed him.  
  
Gimli's defiant face swam into Alflocksom's mind like the face of a foul demon: the pressed line of his rigid mouth, the narrowed eyes, the solid- packed face, and long, double-braided, reddish beard. /It was your idea to come here. And it was you who insisted on taking Aragorn in there unescorted. If you killed him... / the captain thought, and then forced his mind away, because that line of thought was a dead-end. If Gimli had killed Aragorn (/My king!/ his mind insisted fiercely. /Not just Aragorn – the man – but my king!/), he would kill the dwarf, yes – as slowly as possible and without an ounce of mercy. But the thought of justice meant nothing, for Gimli was somewhere in there buried under tons of stone, already dead.  
  
Unless...  
  
/Unless the mine-dweller had planned this,/ a distant part of his mind whispered, /and used the cave-in to cover up the terrible deed. After all, who knows caves and mines better than a dwarf?/  
  
/That evil little son of a... /  
  
/I knew it. I should have never agreed to this,/ he thought guiltily. /I had a feeling not to trust that dwarf – not to trust any dwarves. Not dwarves or elves or... / His face fell as hard and as fast as the ceiling of the mine. /Lords, I'm responsible for this! I'm an accomplice in the murder of – /  
  
"– the King," Alflocksom muttered, then touched his forehead with a trembling hand. He pried his eyes away and caught sight of a flock of sparrows on the wing. He forced his eyes to focus on them and watch their intricate aerial manoeuvres. It was better than looking at the ruined mine's entrance right now – the sight of it and his overwhelming guilt were making him deathly sick.  
  
/I failed him. I failed him... and Gondor. I deserve to be execu – /  
  
The sparrows soared upward as one and his gaze followed. They banked right and then left across the sky and disappeared into a rising column of grey.  
  
That's when he saw it, saw them: smoky, twisting columns of grey, billowing dust. Several, in fact. Tendrils and towers rising towards the sky. At first he blinked rapidly, thinking them merely illusions. He was afraid to tear his eyes from them for fear that they were just the hopeful hallucinations of his grieving mind and would disappear if he looked away. But they remained – several grey swirling towers rising against the sky's clear blue backdrop.  
  
/Exits? Yes. They have to be!/ His heart soared as high as those towers. Then suddenly afraid of getting his hopes up – their hopes up – he slowly wrestled his hope back in check.  
  
/Maybe Aragorn still lives,/ he thought, then a dark thought layered almost on top of the first: /What if only the dwarf lives?/  
  
/If he does,/ the distant, angry part of his mind answered, /and I find him, I'm going to take great pleasure in dragging him back to Gondor and publicly executing him myself. And I'll do it slowly. Very, very slowly. One piece at a time./  
  
Part 5  
  
He felt alive! Wildly alive!  
  
And it was absolutely glorious!  
  
He was running. Flying. Ducking and dodging low limbs and huge boulders. Jumping fallen tree trunks and low brush. Twisting and turning around old trees and young saplings in the pathless woods.  
  
He could feel his heart racing in his chest as it pumped warm blood though his veins. His heart and his veins. His lungs pulling in the crisp air as well as the clean, fresh smell of pine, earth, and other things. Deer. Wolf. And more. His long, lean muscles worked, stretched, bunched. He felt keenly aware of everything – of himself, of his surroundings, of sounds, movements, of the heavens, and of the earth. He felt a oneness with this great forest. A part of it. Owned it. Owned this body. This was his time. His moment. An exhilaration he had never known before flooded over him.  
  
Night was beginning to fall – the sky draining of colour and the air growing colder – when Ridley had finally sent him out. And he set out quickly – his pace faster than any human could travel. But he wasn't human. Far from it. He was far older than the oldest trees in this forest. He was a first-born. An immortal. A cunning, ruthless, predator of all predators; and he was in his element now.  
  
The silence that began swallowing the forest was as deep as the darkness in his soul. It felt right to him. Everything felt so right. Hunter and hunted. The captured now newly freed – in more ways than one. He was ravenous with an unquenchable hunter's thirst – a voracious bloodlust. But this thirst would have to be satisfied like that of any other predator in the darkness. He would have to earn his prey. To find this prey would take all his skills, his senses...ready to strike...when the moment was right.  
  
But his prey was not altogether human. The one he sought was a Dunadan. And not just any Dunadan, but a very skilled Ranger...and not just any Ranger.  
  
The prey was Aragorn, Lord of the Dunedain. A more than worthy opponent.  
  
As the darkness descended, the elf's pace through the trees quickened and the black pupils of his eyes widened and completely swallowed the light- blue colour to draw in the last small rays of twilight. To ordinary sight, he seemed to float over the heavy snowline. To ordinary hearing, he was almost silent. The elf's fierce gaze narrowed, his eyes flickering like small lights as they reflected the last of the dying dusk.  
  
He stopped and lifted his face to the heavens, and through an opening in the thickening cloud, he caught sight of a single star shining so brightly above him that it looked like a dazzling ray of sunlight. Earendil. For a moment he was drawn to stare at it. Then he sneered and uttered a low curse. Anxious to get moving again, he began to race once more through the forest. His senses seemed to be turned up several notches; so alert, so eager, that his muscles quivered as he ran.  
  
"I don't need your help nor your protection, Earendil," he growled. "I'm my own protection. I don't need anything but to have Aragorn's throat between my knives." He grinned. "And I won't need your help for that. I can do that all on my own."  
  
He heard a faint, muffled sound, very insistent and very rapid, and realized that the nuisance – the pesky little voice – had started up again. Deep down he wasn't surprised at all. After all, this was the hell between. And this was the punishment for control: incessant chatter. But he noticed something – something which gave him a good deal of pleasure: in the last dew days the chatter had grown steadily weaker, softer, fading.  
  
"Leave me alone," he said as he ran. "You're dying, so shut up and do it already."  
  
/You can't do this!/ the small, panic-stricken voice in his head cried. /I won't let you hurt him!/  
  
"Who's going to stop me? You?" Greenleaf chuckled; his pace increasing even more. "You can't even help yourself now, never mind help him." The voice came again and he shook his head. "Oh no. I am going to do this, Legolas ... and you're going to watch. Share and share alike, you know. Just like you did to me. I watched while you lived; now you'll watch while I destroy everything you live for. I think that's only fair. Oh don't worry, after a few thousand years you'll get used to it. Of course, I never did, but that was me."  
  
/You're insane!/  
  
Greenleaf started to chuckle.  
  
Then laugh.  
  
The whole – how long had it been? – was condensed into great, roaring bellows of laughter. He laughed so hard than he had to stop and grip a tree trunk before he fell over. He laughed himself half-sick. He tried to speak, but the laughter howled out again before he could. He slid to his knees and wrapped his arms around his sides. Tears spurted from his eyes and rolled down his face.  
  
I have to stop laughing, he thought. I can't breathe!  
  
Then he thought: You're calling me insane? You've got some nerve! Guess what, Legolas? We're insane! We, my timid little counterpart, and began to laugh wildly again. Exactly what is your definition of one body with two separate conscious' and personalities? I don't know about you, but I call that insane, and I'm almost sure everyone else would agree with me! Lords, you're such a damned fool!  
  
At last the fit began to slow to giggles. He wiped the back of his arm across his wet eyes and said, "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that, but since you and I are so close..."  
  
But he couldn't finish the sentence. He doubled over with laughter again and held his aching sides.  
  
Part 6  
  
Legolas sank to his knees in his black prison. He knelt there with everything – hands, shoulders, and head – hanging. He was vaguely aware that he was weeping. The laughter rose around him, pummelled him, tore through his head with a physical pain. His mouth opened and all of his despair and fear came out in one long, agonizing cry.  
  
The laughter continued. Grew.  
  
"Greenleaf," he said, his eyes blurred with tears.  
  
What?  
  
"What do you want?" His voice was almost inaudible.  
  
Silence. Then, Everything, Legolas. This body. You – gone. Everything I should have had. Everything you had that I didn't.  
  
Legolas dipped his head. Swallowed. "Then take it." He paused. "It's yours. On one condition – you leave Aragorn alone."  
  
The silence was so long that for a minute Legolas didn't think he was going to answer. Then, No. I don't think so.  
  
"I won't fight you anymore. You can have it all."  
  
Greenleaf chuckled. What's the matter? Don't you like it in there? You're in my home – my prison you made for me – and I'm in yours. By the way, I like yours better. It has a much better view. He paused. Of course, there is something...   
  
"What? Name it."  
  
Watch me kill him...then you can shrivel up and die.  
  
The maniacal laughter surrounded him again. Legolas sank to the black floor, hugged his knees to his chest, and curled himself up into a tight ball. The laughter started up again, plunging into him, only this time there was no humour to it at all, only a coldness so horrid that it was like being stabbed through the heart with an icicle. An invisible, cold force pressed him down and once again froze him solid to the floorboards. Helpless, seeing no way to stop this, no way to even slow it, and all hope gone, he did the only thing left to him – he readied himself for the end.  
  
Tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Simple  
  
Part 1  
  
The dwarf and the king had made less than ten leagues before the sky began to darken and the lowering sun painted the bottoms of the thickening clouds a pinkish-purple. With the temperature dropping like a stone thrown in deep water, they decided to find shelter for the night – not because they wanted to, but because they had to. Gimli was exhausted. He staggered drunkenly, barely managing to place one foot in front of the other.  
  
They stopped at the mouth of a small, natural cave, tossed their belongings in, and then both began foraging for firewood. Both leaned and grasped the same branch at the same time. When Gimli's eyes found Aragorn's hand he looked up, puzzled for a moment.  
  
"What?" Aragorn asked, letting go and backing down from the unspoken challenge to let the tired dwarf claim the small victory.  
  
"Your father's ring. Did you loose it?" Gimli asked, tucking the prized branch under his arm.  
  
"No." Aragorn reached for more kindling and gathered it in the crook of his arm. "I left it at the palace along with everything else."  
  
"Everything?" Gimli frowned. "Surely not Arwen's pendant."  
  
"Everything. Why?"  
  
Gimli shrugged. "Because I've never seen you without your father's ring before."  
  
"No identifiable things, Gimli," he explained, yanking another branch from the ground. This one was frozen under the snow at one end and required a bit of muscle to pry it free. "The ring is a symbol of who I am. So is the pendant."  
  
"So are those black clothes," Gimli pointed out. "And yet you're wearing them."  
  
"Yes. But they only identify me as a ranger among many, not as a king. Too many people know the ring."  
  
Gimli barked a laugh. "You got me there." His eyes unfocused for a moment and he swayed dizzily on his feet. He huffed and shook his head to clear it; his long red beard continued to jiggle comically long after his head had stopped moving.  
  
Aragorn smiled. "Come on you stubborn mule. Time for some sleep before you fall on your face."  
  
Gimli nodded numbly and headed back, not bothering to argue for a change, which came as a pleasant surprise to Aragorn. /But then, six days – no wonder,/ Aragorn thought. /If I were him, I'd be dead on my feet and starting to talk to myself long before now. Gimli must certainly have a strong friendship with Legolas to want to push himself this hard. And to think they usually natter at each other as though they can't stand each other. Who'd have thought a dwarf and an elf could become so close./  
  
As though in a stupor, Gimli let the firewood slip from his arms as he entered the cave. Past caring, he trudged right through it, scattering it with his dragging feet. He pressed his back against the rock wall, dropped slowly to the floor, and was snoring softly without benefit of a blanket, worry or no worry, before Aragorn had time to strike a fire. Aragon, however, found that his own sleepiness had been stolen away. He draped his own blanket over the slumbering dwarf and gently patted his shoulder. Gimli didn't so much as stir.  
  
Dropping to the floor of the opposite wall nearer the entrance, Aragorn settled his back against the smooth rock and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He sat looking up at the stars and listening to the steady, rhythmic breathing coming from of the slumbering dwarf.  
  
/Six days,/ he thought, running a hand over his weary face. /Gimli had waited a day, traveled for four, and then we left today. Six. Legolas could be anywhere by now. This won't be easy. Nearly impossible really. It will be another three days travel just to get to the starting point – more at this rate – and with the new snows... /  
  
"Maybe we'll get lucky," Aragorn whispered softly to himself. "I hope." He breathed a long, slow sigh. "Lords, I hope."  
  
He glanced up at the sky and spotted Earendil shining down like a beacon in the night. The thick clouds seemed to swirl around it but mysteriously did not cross it's path to cover it.  
  
"Earendil, please help us find him," Aragorn whispered. "And if it's not too much to ask, please let him be alive when we do."  
  
Part 2  
  
Sleep didn't come as soon as Aragorn had hoped. He added a few more pieces of wood to the fire, readjusted Gimli's fallen blanket, and then resettled himself again. Earendil was finally asleep – the clouds covering the beloved star like a woollen blanket. Somewhere in the darkness an owl hailed its soft, haunting cry into the stillness, and Aragorn thought for a moment of his dream and his own question – who? Legolas was the who. But there were two Legolas'. Who is real... or are both real? Or neither?  
  
Two, and yet one, the other Legolas had said. One and the same. Two halves of a whole. Remember that.  
  
/But that doesn't make any sense,/ he thought, exasperated. /How can there be two of them?/  
  
With that and other unanswered questions still plaguing his mind, Aragorn fell asleep not two minutes after he rested his head back against the rock wall.  
  
And he dreamed again. But not the same dream.  
  
This dream was almost as disturbing as the first one had been. Almost – because this one started out better but ended just as badly. He would awaken from this dream with his face wet with tears like he had after the first one and shaking just as hard, but this time he was a part of the dream instead of merely viewing it all as a spectator.  
  
He was racing through the forest, his heart pounding in his ears and his breath coming fairly easy for the more than quick pace. He felt adrenalin flooding his body. His excitement mounted. /Predator and prey,/ he thought, and then wondered why he had thought that.  
  
The darkness was almost complete but his eyes seemed to be adjusting to compensate well enough, drinking in the last small light of dusk. What struck him was not his eyesight, though that was amazing enough. No, what struck him was his hearing. It was incredible. He could hear everything for leagues around: a crow's raspy call from the treetops, an owl calling out, two foxes quibbling likely over found carrion, a startled deer darting out of the way, and so much more. The night was alive with sound.  
  
He felt powerful, surefooted, and fast – much faster than he'd ever moved in his life. He ran through the forest, springing through the undergrowth so swiftly that he seemed to leave hardly an mark on the snow. As a matter of fact, he didn't sink into the deep snow at all but curiously ran on top of it. It was invigorating. Exhilarating. Impressive.  
  
/Like an elf./  
  
That thought struck him like a thunderbolt. Up until now, he would have sworn he was a wolf. The eyesight, the hearing, the scents. Yes, even the scents. They had set his nerve endings quivering with fury and bloodlust. His ears picked up the smallest sound, and his running body would flex subtly, here changing pace, or there swerving left or right, that he seemed to be as one with the forest. His instincts were utterly in tune with everything around him and ready at a moments notice to show his truest skill – fight – as fast as the turning of a snowflake in a wild wind. There would be no thoughts of flight tonight, he knew. His stride was too purposeful.  
  
/I'm on a mission of some sort./  
  
He suddenly stopped and turned his face up to the sky. He caught sight of Earendil shining down as brightly as it had when he had been awake, but this time it seemed as though he was viewing it from a slightly different angle. He felt his lips twist into a sneer and heard himself curse. Then he moved on.  
  
His own face floated in front of his eyes as though a vision within a vision. Instead of ignoring it, he felt himself grow furious and quicken his pace.  
  
The dream changed...  
  
And just as the first dream had, this dream went south – a real hard turn south – straight into a nightmare.  
  
He was in a room of sorts. At least he thought it was a room. It was too dark to tell. The boy suddenly appeared beside him, glowing faintly with a strange light that seemed to come from within. His eyes were not fixed on Aragorn's face but staring ahead to a spot in the blackness far before him.  
  
A warning, Aragorn, the boy said. This time do not interfere nor move from this spot. There is nothing you can do here but watch and learn. Learn all you can. You will need it.  
  
Then he vanished without a trace.  
  
A tiny beam of light shone down from an unseen source to illuminate a spot a good twenty feet before him. Aragorn knew that the light was for his benefit. He didn't know how he knew, he just did. And in that spot of light was the prone form of Legolas, lying as though some invisible weight pinned him down. He was struggling to rise, his shoulders quivering under the enormous strain of effort, but whatever held him was strong – immeasurably strong – because it seemed that he couldn't manage to so much as lift his head. After a moment, Aragorn corrected himself with immeasurably strong and immeasurably cold, because the golden hair fanning out around him was frozen solid to the floor, as if not really a floor at all but a massive block of black ice.  
  
Then came voices came with words he couldn't quite make out. One voice was weak and terrified and the other voice was strong and as unfeeling as a stone. The weak voice pleaded. The hard voice boomed and crashed like thunder. Then it laughed – long and deep and ear-splittingly loud. Aragorn grimaced and covered his throbbing ears. Legolas gasped and jerked, unable to move to cover his own. The elf groaned. Cried. Begged. Screamed. All to no avail. The laughing continued, vibrating right through both of them.  
  
/Sweet lords, I wonder if Legolas has gone mad,/ Aragorn thought. /If this was real and I had to endure this, I think I would be!/  
  
Finally, the voices stilled...and Legolas' head slowly rose from the floor.  
  
/I don't want to see!/  
  
But he did see. He couldn't tear his eyes away.  
  
Legolas' face lifted to his as if seeing him, though there were no eyes to see with – just hollow, black sockets. His face was gaunt, his cheeks sunk in, his forehead heavily wrinkled. He was  
  
(dying)  
  
aging at an incredible rate. Then faster. Thinning. Growing more and more feeble, more and more skeletal. His mouth opened, and a puff of dust blew out with the croaking words: "I have to die, Aragorn. I'm ready."  
  
The desolation and utter hopelessness in his voice filled Aragorn with horror.  
  
Legolas... a powerful voice cautioned.  
  
Aragorn stood transfixed with horror at both the sight before him and the evilness of the voice surrounding him. /This is a premonition, a distant part of his mind thought. It has to be. Oh lords.../  
  
Learn all you can. You will need it, the boy's voice repeated in a whisper in his ear, even though Aragorn knew he was no longer there.  
  
Then he had another thought: /Try to take hold of it. Control it like a dream. Ask a question. Try it!/  
  
Legolas, who is doing this to you? he asked.  
  
I'm warning you...   
  
I am, the elf answered defiantly, going against the other voice. He is.  
  
You are, came another reply, this one echoing all around him, vibrating through him like impact tremors of some impossibly huge beast. Now shut up, Legolas. I'm warning you for the last time...  
  
Don't trust him, Aragorn, Legolas whispered. Don't listen to him...or to me...or to us. I can't stop him.  
  
DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU! I TOLD YOU TO SHUT UP!  
  
Legolas suddenly flew upward, yanked from the floor by an unseen force, then suspended high in the windless air as if a puppet on invisible strings. He began to shake violently, helplessly; his arms outstretched, hands clenching to fists, and head dropping back as though gripped in ungodly pain. His mouth popped open, but instead of words, an unearthly howl burst from him.  
  
Before Aragorn could rush forward he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Turning, he found the boy staring at him, shaking his head slowly. "Do not interfere nor move from this spot," he repeated sternly. "There is nothing you can do here but watch and learn. Learn, Aragorn. Learn and believe...and remember all of this. Remember what kind of creature you will be facing soon."  
  
Aragorn would remember this and the rest of this...dream, until the day he died; his mind would never completely loose this sight nor the sights and sounds of what would come next. He remembered thinking over and over again: /This is not physically happening...this is only a dream, a premonition...but this was not physically happening!/  
  
And that was true, but seeing it now, seeing the pain on Legolas' face, seeing and hearing and being helpless to stop it...that did something to Aragorn. It hurt his mind.  
  
Legolas shrieked even louder against the invisible, unholy force. Then with one last cry, like his sightless eyes in the first dream, this time his whole body cracked like thin ice on a lake and shattered in a dazzling explosion of glittering light.  
  
As the shower sparkled to the floor, it floated down over something else – something standing directly beneath it, illuminating the form like a magnificent, shimmering ghost. Aragorn glimpsed it – it's outstretched arms and upturned face welcoming the shower as greedily as a farmer in a long drought would welcome a downpour – and at the same instant Aragorn felt it's sheer evilness – it's pure darkness – radiating outward from it as total and as searing as the sun.  
  
The second Legolas.  
  
Aragorn was silent for a moment. Then the breath in his chest hitched and he unleashed Legolas' name in a long, heart-rending scream – but again in the dream and not for real, thank the stars, or Gimli might have swung his axe first and asked questions later.  
  
In his dream, Aragorn threw his arms up to shield his eyes from the sight...  
  
Part 3  
  
...and awoke, sitting bolt upright on the mine's stone floor. He was looking at the mine from behind his own upraised arms before he knew where he was; his heart still pounding in his chest like a too-fast drum. Shaking, he ran a hand over his wet cheeks and fought to slow his breathing while he waited for the dream to let go.  
  
/Premonition,/ his mind insisted on whispering. /It's not a dream. It's not a dream./  
  
He looked at Gimli and saw that he was sleeping soundly. He watched him for awhile then he let his head fall back against the smooth rock wall.  
  
/Two different dreams, and Legolas – one Legolas – had weakened and died in both,/ he thought. /And both times he had been in dark rooms – the first in a mine and now in a black...what? Tomb? Prison? Whatever it was, it was still a room, though. Both dark. Both rooms. And both times he had been lying on the floor. Is that significant?/  
  
/Trapped? Legolas often referred to mines as a feeling of being trapped. Was he trapped now? Was that what it meant? Or was it the darkness? Or forced down to the ground...the floor...or just...down? Down. Held down, forced down, tied down... So I'll say forced, then./  
  
This is like trying to solve a riddle within a riddle within a riddle, all in an unfamiliar language.  
  
/Alright, so what do we have, then?/ he wondered. /Trapped. Dark, or black. Forced down. And death is the end of each dream./  
  
/Not a dream. A premonition,/ a small part of his mind corrected him.  
  
/Alright – premonition. But what does it all mean?/  
  
(I have to die. I'm ready.)  
  
Aragorn's mind wrapped around Legolas' words and added them to the puzzle. /So add it up. He's trapped in the dark, weakening, forced down, and he's ready to die./ Then he added something else: /And there are two Legolases./  
  
(I am. He is. Don't listen to him...or to me...or to us.)  
  
/Lords, I'm never going to sleep tonight!/ he thought with a light snort.  
  
He glanced over at Gimli, still snoring soundly, and was actually jealous of him. He had a quick mental picture of tossing a rock ner him to awaken him. Misery likes company, and all that. So do people who can't sleep for fear of nightmares. But he couldn't let this go now. He felt like he was just starting to get somewhere; like having someone's name on the tip of your tongue but can't quite say. The answer is there. He knew it. The answer is there somewhere in this jumble, probably right in front of him, and he'd likely kick himself later for not seeing it sooner.  
  
Gimli began to murmur in his sleep, a single word becoming clearer and clearer. It was the elf's name. Then the echoes started up, and it was the echoes plus Gimli's repetitious murmurs that sent Aragorn's heart thumping so hard he felt the pulse, high and fast, in his throat. It wasn't Gimli's murmurs that got to Aragorn, but what he was murmuring that did. The dwarf wasn't murmuring the name – Legolas. He was murmuring the name – Greenleaf.  
  
/Don't overanalyse it,/ Aragorn reminded himself. /Think simple. If it is a premonition, then there has to be an answer./  
  
/But what's the answer? There are two Legolases – the stronger one forcing the weaker one down into the dark and torturing him until he gives up and dies? But that's – /  
  
"– insane," he whispered. And with the word the all-too-familiar shiver raced up his spine, because as soon as the word left his mouth, it felt right. Too right. Simple.  
  
And he was right about something else as well – sleep did not return that night.  
  
Tbc...


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Mind Games  
  
Part 1  
  
Greenleaf had to stop. He certainly didn't want to stop right now, but he had to. Legolas' pesky voice was starting to grow stronger again, and it was throwing him off his pace and starting to irritate him to no end. It was time to shut him up for awhile.  
  
He stopped where the valley opened below him. From where he stood (using the last glimmer of light from Earendil before the clouds covered it for the night), he had a nearly perfect view of the forest, the winding river, and the tiny, gurgling waterfall below. Sounds echoed up to him. He could hear everything and see everything from here. Nothing could come within a two league radius without him knowing about it. This spot was about as safe as any he'd find in the forest. For the first time in – how long has it been? – he began to relax.  
  
"Hey Legolas," he said, dipping to one knee and dropping the pack, bow, and quiver to the snow-covered ground. "Wanna to play a game?"  
  
/No,/ came the reply. /I don't feel like playing stupid games right now. A pause. Then, /Why? What are you up to?/  
  
"Nothing," he said innocently. "Just taking a little break." He untied the pouch's string from his belt and pulled the drawstrings open. "What are you – paranoid? Come on, play a game with me. A mind game, get it?" he said cheerfully. "What do you say? It's not like you have something better to do."  
  
Silence. Then he repeated: /Why?/  
  
You've got a bit of nerve, you whiny fool, I'll give you that much, Greenleaf thought, feeling the heat in his shoulder rising to a greedy burn.  
  
"Because I'm bored and I asked you to – that's why," he snapped. He sighed tiredly. "Why does everything always have to be an argument with you? I'm just tired of thinking, alright? Can't you do something I want for a change without asking so many damned questions?" He sighed. Softened. "I won't take it personally. I'm just bored."  
  
/Do I have a choice?/  
  
"No." He spilled the contents of the pouch onto the snow and fingered through them. "Let's play a round of riddles."  
  
/What are you up to, Greenleaf?/  
  
"Nothing," he repeated innocently again, this time adding a small tone of hurt. "I'm just bored. You go first."  
  
/Is this another one of your stupid tricks? Because if it is – /  
  
"No. Really. I'm serious. I'm trying to be, anyway. Come on. Just one. Surely you can think of one lousy riddle, can't you? You wouldn't want to make me angry... Trust me for once."  
  
Trust Greenleaf? Legolas longed to say no and ask why his dominant self was suddenly interested in riddles. He was terribly frightened of the black isolation where he was. But, if he played along, Greenleaf would be too occupied to heap more tortures on him.  
  
He remembered Bilbo telling him about the riddle-game he'd had with Gollum those many years ago. He knew, as the old Hobbit had, that the ancient game was sacred and even dark creatures were afraid to cheat when playing it. But, Greenleaf could not be trusted to adhere to any rules or constraints and no matter what the outcome of the game, he would continue to inflict misery on the imprisoned prince. Even knowing this, Legolas could not deny the stronger side anything. He was weak, getting weaker by the hour, and soon there would be nothing left.  
  
/Alright,/ he whispered.  
  
"Good. You go first," Greenleaf said.  
  
So Legolas asked:  
  
/There is a thing that nothing is, and yet it has a name. It's sometimes tall and sometimes short, joins our talks, joins our sport, and plays at every game./  
  
Greenleaf burst out laughing. "Oooo, a naughty riddle?" he cried. "Legolas, I'm surprised at you! Pleasantly surprised! Damn, I didn't know you had a crude side. I thought that belonged to me!"  
  
/No, Greenleaf. It's not what you think. Sometimes a riddle makes you look in one direction while leading you in another./  
  
Greenleaf looked up from the items, actually interested for the moment. "Alright – I give up. What?"  
  
/Order. Something you and I don't have now./  
  
Legolas waited for Greenleaf to retaliate, but nothing happened. He let his breath out slowly.  
  
"Hmmm," Greenleaf said thoughtfully. Frowned. "Not bad. Not bad at all. But you're wrong. The answer is a shadow. Riddle me another one."  
  
/No./  
  
"Oh come on. Just one more. I swear."  
  
/Alright./ A pause. Then he asked:  
  
/What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a bed but never sleeps, has a head but never weeps?/  
  
"You?" Greenleaf chuckled at his own joke as he held up the small vial.  
  
/No. And I don't care to play anymore./  
  
"Oh come on. I'm only joking." He picked up the pronged...something, a wad of gauze, a long bandage, and the vial, then scooted backward on the ground and leaned his back against a tree trunk. "Hmmm..." he said, feigning like he was trying to figure out the riddle when in reality he was only trying to distract Legolas.  
  
He covered his mouth to hide a smile even though he knew that Legolas couldn't possibly see it even if he hadn't. Couldn't feel it either. The black prison had no windows and no reality unless he wanted it to, just open to sound and pain right now. He should know – it was his home. Was being the key word. Now it was Legolas', all courtesy of Ridley and his wonderful, magical liquid.  
  
"Let's see..." Greenleaf unfastened his tunic and shrugged his left arm free of his shirt. "What can run but never walks –" He unfastened the soiled bandage that was wrapped tightly around his shoulder and laid it on his lap. "– has a mouth but never talks – " Uncorked the vial and carefully poured a few precious drops of the clear liquid on it as Ridley had shown him. "– has a... What did you say?"  
  
/Has a bed but never sleeps./  
  
"Right. Has a bed but never sleeps." He lay the damp gauze over one thigh and draped the long bandage over the other. "And has a – " He lost his words when he pulled the old gauze off his wound, sucking his breath in sharply through his teeth and wincing as raw flesh, stuck solid to the gauze by dried blood, lifted and pulled off with it. He looked the wound over. Not great. Not good either. In fact, it wasn't good at all. It looked red and inflamed. A bit weepy. Definitely infection there. He knew what it was, but for the life of him couldn't remember what to do about it or why he even had it. Elves don't generally get infections.  
  
/What are you doing?/  
  
"Nothing," he repeated again, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Just thinking," he lied. "And has a head but never weeps – right?"  
  
/Yes./  
  
Greenleaf picked up the pronged...thing and turned it over in his hand. He eyed it's needle-sharp tines with reverence. The workmanship was exquisite. No wonder he had never seen anything like this before. It looked as though it was made specifically for this one purpose, nothing more. Of course, if one were to use this as a weapon it could certainly do some major damage. Whomever made this must have been a true master craftsman. "Is this a timed event?" he asked.  
  
/No./ A pause. /Why are you stalling? You know this as well as I do. What are you doing?/  
  
"I can't remember the answer," he lied again. "It must be one of your riddles."  
  
/I don't like riddles. I find them tiresome and stupid. Idiotic. They're a total waste of time and –  
  
/Time... Is that what you're doing, Greenleaf? Wasting time to so I won't know what you're doing?/  
  
Greenleaf sounded a trifle offended. "Well excuse me for trying to strike up a conversation with you." And thought: You sure hit that nail on the head – Legolas old buddy.  
  
He placed the instrument's sharp, steel prongs against the raw skin of his left shoulder and using his left hand held it steady by it's handle. He took a moment to ready himself, then said cheerfully: "I got it! A river – right?"  
  
/Yes. You're – /  
  
Before the thought had finished, Greenleaf closed his right hand into a fist and punched the prongs deep into his shoulder. He gasped (felt Legolas gasp at the same time), his shoulder an agony of fire and ice. He grit his teeth against the pain and tore the prongs out. An instant gush of fresh blood snaked down the side of his chest.  
  
/GREANLEAF, NO! NO! PLEASE! OH LORDS, DON'T DO THIS... /  
  
He heard Legolas' pleading screams emanating from the black prison in his mind but ignored them. He pressed the damp gauze tight to the wound, leaned his head back against the tree trunk, and waited. It didn't take long – maybe twenty seconds at the outside – then felt the familiar warmth spread over his shoulder and move across his chest. Soon after, a hot rush of strength flowed through him. He smiled as the voice – the screams – grew steadily quieter... slurred thicker... words – thoughts – more and more jumbled and senselessly. But Legolas' steady decline never varied and by the time Greenleaf counted to twenty it finally stopped.  
  
Greenleaf closed his eyes, enjoying the silence.  
  
"Nighty-night, Legolas."  
  
Part 2  
  
Gimli's dreams were confused and disturbing, full of horned beasts and unseen enemies. Over and over he heard a deep voice ask: What are you willing to sacrifice? But since he never understood the question he never had an answer. Plagued by such visions, his sleep was shallow and uneasy until the wee hours when he finally found deep sleep.  
  
"Gimli, wake up," said a voice. He stirred unwillingly, loath to listen. The warmth that surrounded him was too comfortable to leave. The voice sounded again. "Gimli, wake up now. We have to leave."  
  
He reluctantly forced his eyes open. For a moment he didn't quite know where he was. For a full ten seconds he didn't quite know who the man hunkered down beside him was, either. Then it all came back to him and he woke with a start.  
  
Disoriented and confused, he let his eyes roam over the small cave. "What is it? What's wrong?" Gimli asked in a voice still thick with the remnants of sleep.  
  
Aragorn grinned and gave his shoulder another gentle squeeze. "Rise and shine, Gimli. It's time we set out."  
  
Gimli threw his blanket aside and stretched with a groan. "I couldn't sleep a wink last night, you know." He yawned with a loud huff at the end, and shook his head while doing it. "I was just resting my eyes."  
  
"Really?" Aragorn smiled a little and released Gimli's shoulder. "You could have fooled me. You were snoring loud enough to wake the dead."  
  
Gimli reddened. "I think I'm getting a slight head cold," he offered sheepishly.  
  
"Uh-huh." Aragorn got to his feet and drunk-walked over to his kitbag, dipped down and rummaged through it. "We'll eat and then leave, alright? You can wake up on the road."  
  
Gimli nodded, reddening even more.  
  
Aragorn pulled a makeshift hide pouch from his kit bound at the top by a cord. As he passed it to Gimli he noted that the dwarf had more bags under his eyes than a traveling peddler. Even so, the dwarf looked a far cry better today than he had yesterday.  
  
Gimli unwrapped the pouch and found it filled with pieces of dried fruits and berries. He took a handful, his appetite non-existent, and held the pouch out to pass it back.  
  
Aragorn raised a hand. "Keep it. I'm not hungry."  
  
"Are you ill?" Gimli asked. Aragorn looked as though he'd aged twenty years overnight. The lines on his face seemed to have deepened dramatically and he had black – not dark, but truly black – crescent half- circles under his eyes that contrasted sharply against his greyish face.  
  
Aragorn smirked. "I think I'm getting a slight head cold."  
  
"Ha ha," Gimli said dryly. "And when was the last time you had a decent nights rest, eh?"  
  
"That bad, huh?" he said. He made an effort to comb his fingers through his hair in a feeble attempt to make himself appear more presentable, but by the way Gimli went on staring at him told him it hadn't worked. "It's been awhile."  
  
"Alright, Aragorn, enough is enough." The dwarf folded his arms across his crest. "Start talking or I'll sit here until you do."  
  
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Aragorn said, purposely averting his eyes. "I'm not sure I believe it myself. It's... impossible."  
  
"Aye?" Gimli's brow furrowed. "And I've learned never to doubt the impossible, only fear it. What plagues you? Tell me."  
  
So reluctantly, Aragorn did. He told him of the dreams, the premonitions, the sounds and feeling, his thoughts of last night... everything.  
  
And in the end, Gimli wished he hadn't asked.  
  
Part 3  
  
The day was bright blue, but there was a smart bite in the air; winter's crispness reminding them that it was not quite ready to give way to spring. The two travelers reached the crest of the long, gentle hill they had been climbing and stood looking at the glistening valley spread before them. It looked to be magical and not of this time or of this harsh world. The beauty of the valley's unspoiled sanctity seemed fit for an artisan's hand, but even the most skilled artisan – be he painter or poet – would be hard- pressed to capture the true splendour their eyes currently beheld.  
  
For a long time neither of them spoke. Gimli opened his mouth twice, then closed it again. Not since meeting Galadriel had Gimli been rendered utterly speechless by beauty above ground.  
  
The next two days afterward were totally uneventful,(which was surprising, considering where they were and didn't know it – Old Boomer Hollow). They walked; they camped; they ate; they slept – well Gimli slept some; and then they walked some more. Both were exhausted.  
  
Aragorn was starting to believe that he would never sleep again. Each time he began to drift off, the powerful premonitions would drag him back into the nightmares of either the mine or the black room and sit him bolt upright immediately afterwards. When he slept at all, it was fitful, disturbing, and very brief. Gimli fared a bit better, but not much. At best he managed three hours of sleep a night, then spent the rest of it huffing and crashing about – his worry and his temper mounting with each passing hour.  
  
/How long can someone live without sleep?/ Aragorn wondered.  
  
He might not have the answer, but he knew he was well on his way to finding that out. Each step he took seemed more and more of an effort, and each league sapped more and more of his strength. And because of the premonitions, each night filled him with both a desperate desire for sleep and a burning dread of obtaining any. After awhile, dread overrode all desire and he simply refused to sleep at all.  
  
But everything has it's price. And as everyone knows, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. The same holds true with stubborn premonitions that need to deliver their messages. Things began to spiral into an 'if you can't beat 'em, join 'em' sort of price – the premonitions started to join him at every opportunity, awake or not. And because of Aragorn's exhaustion, the window of opportunity was thrown wide open. With exhaustion came the walking daydreams, and with the walking daydreams came the powerful premonitions that would literally snatch him in mid-stride and instantly transport his mind to either the mine or to the black room. Conversations would abruptly cease in mid-word as he was suddenly gripped tight and instantly rendered oblivious to everything around him. Gimli was given to staring at him ever since the first time he'd had to race full- tilt to stop him from tumbling over the edge of a steep drop, or now, as he was now finding, into what appeared to be an overgrown sinkhole; some as much as two or three hundred feet deep. But even overly attentive, Gimli occasionally had to look away to watch his own step, and in those rare moments there had been some mighty close calls. That night, even after Aragorn had assured him several times that he would be fine, Gimli rejected his own sleep in order to keep an eye on him in case his mind wandered again and took his body along for the ride. The thought of waking in the morning to find the king of Gondor's lifeless, broken body at the bottom of some rocky ravine, or worse never finding him again, didn't exactly appeal to him.  
  
Around mid-afternoon on the third day, Gimli finally stopped.  
  
"We're here," he said, and pointed up a steep hill. "There's a clearing up there just beyond those trees. The mine is on the far side of it."  
  
It was quite possibly the best news Aragorn had ever heard in his life, and he was just that second in the process of smiling when a shudder raced up his back. He looked sharply around and spotted a figure just breaking the tree line on the steep hill above. He watched as it began to make its way down toward them moving silently, fluidly, gracefully. Aragorn had the sensation that he was gripped by another vision, only this one wasn't accompanied by an echo. And this one was clear. Too clear. Aragorn was seeing it, actually seeing it, but at the same time he could not – it was as if part of his mind simply refused to see it, as if seeing it would lead to acceptance, and in acceptance, would be forced to question his own sanity.  
  
"Legolas!" Gimli suddenly cried from behind him as the fantasy-turned- reality strode toward them. "Lords almighty, it's Legolas!"  
  
"It can't be," he breathed, but knew it was, and heard the words trying to break into a sob.  
  
Legolas frowned as he approached. "Aragorn? What are you – " The elf's words broke off as his eyes cut to Gimli. An emotion flashed across his face that was something between tremendous relief and utter fury. "Where have you been? I've been worried sick!"  
  
Quite thunderstruck, Gimli's mouth hung open. It took several seconds and several rapid eye-blinks for him to close it. Then he sputtered, "ME?" and repeated: "ME?" several more times in a long, broken string. That word seemed to be the only one he was capable of forming.  
  
Legolas folded his arms across his chest and glared down at the diminutive dwarf. The act reminded Aragorn of a father sternly admonishing a child. An ugly child. An ugly child with a beard. With that thought he found himself smirking and beginning to come back to himself. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry or do both at the same time, so his body decided to do a little of both: his eyes blurred with tears of joy and his face broke into a warm smile.  
  
Legolas turned to him. "And you look like you've just seen a ghost."  
  
"I have!" Caught up in the moment and forgetting everything else, Aragorn grabbed him and pulled him into a tight bear-hug, laughing and crying at the same time. "Lords, I have! You're a sight for sore eyes!"  
  
Legolas stiffened for a moment. "I take it you've missed me," he said, then he hugged him back, a satisfied smile curling his lips...  
  
...a smile that extended no further than his mouth.  
  
Part 4  
  
Even though there was still plenty of daylight left and they could have traveled a good few leagues before any hint of sunset, they decided to make camp were they were and start out fresh in the morning. Gimli and Aragorn had too many questions, and more importantly, not enough sleep to try heading out right away. Both now sat dumbfounded as they watched Legolas go about gathering firewood as though nothing had happened.  
  
"I don't know what to make of this," the dwarf whispered, bewildered, giving Aragorn a worried glance. He fell silent as the elf walked by, and only when he was fairly sure Legolas was safely out of earshot again did he continue. "I waited. I swear to you, Aragorn, I waited a full day here. There was no sign of him anywhere."  
  
"I don't know what to make of it either," Aragorn agreed. His eyes didn't shift to Gimli but remained fastened on the elf. "He's right...but not right."  
  
"Aye," Gimli agreed. "Not right at all."  
  
Aragorn felt jittery. As soon as things had settled down he realized that the something-is-not-right feeling was still there, the feeling that things were going to take a hard turn south, that maybe they already had gone south. And something else too. It wasn't exhaustion; at least he didn't think it was. All the same, something bothered him enough that his brow actually throbbed. Not that this was the first time he'd ever felt it – there has been plenty of times when his brow would suddenly pound with tension – but it had never been this bad before.  
  
/Don't trust him, Aragorn,/ Legolas had whispered in the...premonition? Vision? Nightmare? /Don't listen to him...or to me...or to us. I can't stop him./  
  
/Us,/ Aragorn thought. /He said – us./  
  
Aragorn felt the familiar shiver crawl up his spine.  
  
A minute ago, Legolas had taken the last few pieces of firewood into the mine. Now finally finished, he stood at the mine's entrance brushing his hands off and looking quite pleased with himself as he did. Grinning, he made his way over to them and lowered to the ground in front of both. As he settled, he glanced to his right at the barely discernable haze of the full moon hanging suspended and waiting for her turn to own the sky. "It'll be cold a moon tonight," he said, "but that should be enough firewood to warm even that mine. As a matter of fact, I was thinking... since we're here and set up, anyway – "  
  
But suddenly Aragorn  
  
"– why don't we stay – "  
  
realized that this wasn't  
  
"– for a few days?"  
  
Legolas.  
  
Aragorn's breath stilled and his eyes riveted to the elf as he continued on in a pleasant tone. "Just the three of us, like in the old days. We could do some hunting. What do you say?"  
  
/Hunting me, you mean,/ Aragorn thought, remembering the dream. "Well...maybe, Legolas," he said. "Maybe." His eyes flicked briefly to Gimli, then returned to the elf's face. "Let's see how things are in the morning, and then we'll decide. If everything is alright, then maybe..."  
  
A broad smile lit the elf's face. "Agreed." He stood, brushed himself off, and walked back toward the mine.  
  
/That is not Legolas,/ Aragorn thought as he watched him go. /I don't know who it is, but I know who it isn't./  
  
And Aragorn knew something else too: he knew he would have to do this alone. Tomorrow morning at first light he would send Gimli back to Minas Tirith, because if he didn't, he knew with absolute certainty that whoever that is, would kill him.  
  
Tbc...


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Myths And Monsters  
  
Part 1  
  
The young messenger made his way to the base camp. His gait was uneven and he pressed a hand to his side to brace a painful stitch. This runner was special. He had been between the main search party and the centre of operations several times, and the guards who had stood aside to let him pass were amazed that he was still on his feet. But the fact that he was still standing was not what made them look at him with rapt attention. There was a glimmer in his eyes – one of elation. Outside the Captain's tent he turned to them, briefly looked toward the heavens, and nodded. He had some good news to report.  
  
He was ushered inside the tent without benefit of announcement or formality, and as he stepped inside, ducking his head under the tent's low flap to enter it, his eyes immediately lit on the intimidating form of the legendary Captain Alflocksom seated behind a huge table: spread out on the table were all known maps and charts of Gondor: on his right sat Aic, on his left Seigen, and opposite him Vedt – all three also of great military rank and legend. He waited patiently for them to glance up from their maps, and while he waited he looked first at the docile blond-haired, dark- eyed one with the rounder face, whose name was Aic. Then at the dark haired and dark-eyed man, from whom he sensed much doubt and anger. Vedt was his name. The third had a face that would have been handsome had his expression not been so anxious. His sky-blue eyes were really quite beautiful, and the lines at their outer corners hinted at his penchant for smiling. Seigen was his name. But it was the fourth that took the runner's full attention now. That one had eyes older than his years and his chiselled features almost masked the signs of a hard childhood. That one had seen death, battle, and more importantly, pain, and, it seemed, still wore that pain like an fresh wound. That one was his focus. That one's name was Alflocksom.  
  
"...and what's more," Alflocksom was saying, "the trackers are finding nothing worth sending runners, so we should spread the search further. Lords know the mine's exits go on for miles in every direction; damn the dwarves and their stinking holes." There was no answering that statement, and after a pause he went on to the say: "Get the camp ready to pull out. We'll move more north."  
  
"Of course," Vedt muttered. He looked up at the boy sharply, then down at the charts again.  
  
"Still and all..." Aic mumbled, touching a spot of interest on the map in front of him.  
  
"Where?" Vedt asked, leaning forward on his elbows and squinting over the map.  
  
"Right there," Aic replied, his finger still on the spot. "We haven't tried that area yet."  
  
Seigen glanced up. "We have company, gentlemen," he said, no real thought to the boy but more as a warning to the others at the table to keep their thoughts private.  
  
Both Aic and Vedt glanced up and gave him a critical eye. Dismissing him as being likely just another runner in the endless parade of runners with more bad news, they lowered their gazes back to the maps. Alflocksom didn't, though. His head raised up slowly, only now noticing his presence with Seigen's words. He leaned back in his chair and tilted his head; his green eyes fixed solidly on him.  
  
The boy met his gaze self-consciously, then lowered his head studying the tips of his boots.  
  
/Thirteen, fourteen, but no more than that,/ Alflocksom thought with a quick assessment, and knew that the runner had traveled a great distance. The boy was panting softly and tendrils of steam were rising from his damp clothing. There was a steady, rhythmic tap-tap sound, much like a single finger tapping a table. The captain watched his face flush when he realized that the sound was sweat dripping from his hair onto his leather overtunic. When he nervously brushed back a wet, dark curl, Alflocksom smothered a grin.  
  
"What news, lad?" Alflocksom asked softly, feeling sympathy for the boy.  
  
"Driton the tracker has found something, sir," he reported, a smile gleaming in his eyes. He tried to sound less out of breath than he was and found it impossible.  
  
"What?" Alflocksom asked; his eyes still fixed on him as he slowly rose from his chair. The other three who had previously dismissed him with scarcely a second glance instantly snapped their eyes onto him as though he suddenly had the answers to the meaning of life, the universe, and everything. In the same instant he had the uncomfortable sensation of being a deer caught in four archers sights – one wrong move and they would fire on him. "Where?"  
  
Overhearing the word easily enough through the tent's canvass, one curious guard drew the door's flap open and poked his head inside. After a quick glance in, and catching a hard glare from Alflocksom, he closed it again.  
  
"I can't show you on a map...but I can point it out."  
  
"Point it out, what?" Vedt said purely out of habit, his dark eyes gleaming dangerously.  
  
He groped for the right answer, pushing away the tangle of nerves and the sudden stillness of his breath. And what came was what would have served his own commander, otherwise known as his father. "Point it out, sir?"  
  
"Yes, so he is," Seigen agreed in a voice of wonder. Alflocksom kicked his ankle – hard – without taking his eyes from the boy's face.  
  
"Nothing wrong with protocol," Vedt said irritably.  
  
"Oh for the love of..." Aic muttered, and shook his head like he'd heard this one too many times.  
  
Alflocksom shot Vedt a hard look. "Hang your protocol," he said sternly. "This is neither the time nor the place for it." His eyes re-fixed on the boy; the look soft and sympathetic. "Show me, lad."  
  
The runner nodded and began to shuffle back the way he had come, all four men following in his wake. The knowledge that he was being watched by many eyes from the camp – eyes filled with both curiosity and question – added to his nervousness. He shivered as he walked, his body temperature dropping too quickly in the frosty air and the cold already starting to stiffen his sweat-damp clothes.  
  
The four followed him to the bank of the step-cliff. As soon as they stopped on the edge, Alflocksom unclasped his thick cloak and draped it over the young runner's trembling shoulders. Too cold to refuse it, the boy smiled at the gesture and the extraordinary generosity and pulled the warm cloak tight around his shivering frame. The cloak was legendary. It had been formerly owned by the captain's late son, Brysom, who only the month before had been ambushed and slain while leading a contingent of guards against one of the few remaining pockets of Sauron's followers. Though mortally wounded, the young man had shown the superior strength of his bloodline – fighting bravely to his last breath. He lived just long enough to see the leaderless followers brought to a swift end; most sent to shadow by is own hand.  
  
Alflocksom glanced at him and again urged: "Show me."  
  
The young man looked over the surroundings, trying to get his bearings. He knew the captain's legendary temper, and rather than get wound up with frustration, he relaxed and let his mind retrace his path. "There," he said, pointing out the strange jut of rock looming out between the far hills like a monument. It had the strange shape of a hat with a fat feather stuck in the side. "The other side of that jut, sir."  
  
"Good work, lad," the captain said. "Go and warm yourself with some hot soup." He paused. "And keep the cloak. You've earned it. When you're ready, can you lead us there?"  
  
"Yes, sir." The runner smiled, his eyes sparkling with devotion. "Thank you, sir."  
  
Alflocksom touched his arm before he could turn to leave. "Your name, son."  
  
"Orome, sir."  
  
Aic, Vedt, and Seigen were standing behind the boy now, and Aic and Vedt's eyes met. Both glanced at Seigen. In his eyes they saw laughter and shock in equal measure.  
  
Seigen looked at the boy with his eyebrows raised. He pointed to him and then raised his forefinger to his temple and drew small circles in the air while giving a silent whistle.  
  
Both Aic and Vedt nodded their agreement.  
  
"Ahh, a strong name. High-elven isn't it?" Alflocksom asked, ignoring his three comrades.  
  
The boy nodded.  
  
"Yet you're no elf. Tell me, how did you come by it?"  
  
The young man shrugged. "My father had a sense of humour."  
  
"Indeed, young horn-blower." The captain smirked. "Or should I call you Aldaron?"  
  
The lad's gaze lifted and he smiled an odd, slow smile that drew the captain to stare deeply into his eyes. After a moment the lad broke the gaze. Nodding once more, he pulled the cloak tighter around himself and walked away. An undefinable emotion flickered across Alflocksom's slack face as his eyes followed the departing young runner.  
  
"Orome, huh?" Seigen said with a snigger as he watched the boy cross to the kitchen tent. "Sure he is. And I'm – "  
  
"Shut up," Alflocksom said mildly, his eyes still firmly fixed to the departing lad's back.  
  
The teasing smile tumbled off Seigen's face at once.  
  
"Problem?" Aic asked, as he caught Alflocksom's odd look.  
  
"Hmmm?" Alflocksom asked dreamily. After another moment he tore his eyes away, blinked several times, and stared at the other. "Uhhh... No." He rubbed his forehead as he came back to himself, then said more forcefully: "No. Have the camp packed and ready to go within the hour." He glanced once again toward the lad. "When he's ready, we'll leave."  
  
Aic and Vedt's eyes met again. This time there was no trace of humour in either's eyes.  
  
Part 2  
  
Aragorn is such a fool it's a miracle he's lived as long as he has, Greenleaf shot at Legolas as he stacked the deadwood into a small pile to carry back. No wonder he needed our help so often.  
  
Legolas considered arguing with him but he knew that the best thing do right now was to remain silent and keep certain information close to him. He didn't want to tip Greenleaf off to the fact that he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life: he'd underestimated Aragorn. And Legolas wasn't about to tell Greenleaf otherwise. He knew what he had to do – the only thing he could do – and even though he was terrified of the dark side and what he could do to him, he was even more terrified of the dark succeeding. He wouldn't let that happen, no matter what the cost.  
  
What's the matter, Legolas? Cat got your tongue? Greenleaf chuckled softly. Don't worry. It'll all be over soon. Then it'll be just you and me. Doesn't that sound cozy?  
  
/You don't have to kill them!/ Legolas shouted. /We could leave now and it would still be you and me. I'll...I'll give over freely. I swear it./  
  
But you'd always be here, wouldn't you? Greenleaf thought, tapping his temple with a finger. That's not what I want. See – I figure that if you watch me gut your friends, odds are you'll shrivel up and die. Then I'll have it all. He chuckled. See? There's a method to my madness. He paused. Oh yeah, and I have a special surprise for you. I was going to save it for later but I've never been very patient, so... After we send Aragorn and Gimli to the void we're going to pay a visit to everyone else you consider a friend – if you have any left, that is. I wonder what would happen if we sailed to the Undying Lands? What do you think? Can the dead, die, Legolas? How about we find out?  
  
/You can't do that!/  
  
Why not?  
  
He didn't have an answer.  
  
Thought so.  
  
Greenleaf was vaguely aware that his shoulder had started to throb again. It began lightly at first then grew steadily worse. He wondered how long it had been between the last time he'd satisfied the need and now. Bad timing right now, though, he reflected. With both targets sitting there watching him like two starving hawks watching a mouse, it's not like he could rip his shirt open and tear his shoulder to pieces without them asking questions...  
  
...unless he lied...and told them that it's medicine for the infection. Medicine. Would that work? he wondered. Likely, considering Aragorn is so trusting it's not even funny, and Gimli's a flaming idiot. His face broke out into a huge grin. Why not? Do it right in front of them. What was that old saying? 'The best place to hide something is in plain sight?'  
  
Besides, it's time to shut you up again, he thought, re-opening his thoughts and shooting them at the light side. You're starting to get on my nerves.  
  
/Shut me... Oh lords, Greenleaf, please... Please, no... /  
  
He carried the wood back and dropped it beside the small campfire inside the mine. He could feel their eyes boring into his back with every step. When he re-emerged, he dropped to a patch of frosty grass in front of them, drew his legs up to sit cross-legged, untied the pouch's string from his belt, and pulled the drawstrings open.  
  
"What's that?" Aragorn asked.  
  
"This?" Legolas, or rather, not Legolas, said. "Oh, this is likely why Gimli and I missed each other." His gaze lifted to the curious dwarf. "I apologize, Gimli. I did leave for a time. While I waited for you, I got a little bored, so I started to do a bit of exploring myself. I slipped and caught my shoulder on a broken branch. Stupid, really. I thought you'd be longer, Gimli, so I left to find a healer, and, well, I guess the rest is history." He shrugged. "Sorry."  
  
Gimli didn't answer, but Aragorn noticed out of the corner of his eye that he did frown – not an angry frown, but more of a 'what-is-going-on' type of frown. The dwarf wasn't buying this for a minute, and neither was he.  
  
Aragorn leaned forward to see and at the same time thought: /He thinks we're idiots. He must if he thinks we'd believe he'd caught himself on a broken branch. At the very least, a centuries-old wood-elf would never admit to that mistake. The ribbing would be Lords-awful./ "So..." he asked aloud.  
  
"Well," the elf said as he opened his tunic and shrugged his left arm out of his shirt sleeve, "some of the splinters were deep, and the wound is infected." He began to unwrap the bandage. "It's not bad though. This liquid is clearing it up pretty well."  
  
/A lie,/ Aragorn thought. /Elves aren't prone to disease and can't die of anything short of being mortally wounded or willing themselves to die. The only way he could get an infection is if his body is weak. Terribly weak. But he sure doesn't look weak to me. So what was this about an infection? And more importantly, why would he go against his sworn word and travel to a healer for something that wasn't life-threatening?/  
  
It didn't make sense to him, any more than his own questions were making any sense right now. /I'm too tired to think clearly,/ he thought.  
  
"Can I have a look?" Aragorn asked.  
  
The elf nodded. "But don't touch it. It's still pretty painful."  
  
Aragorn hunkered down in front of him with his forearms resting on his thighs and his hands dangling between his knees and watched with a great deal of interest as Greenleaf, hissing, pealed back the bloody gauze. The wound was angry-red and badly swollen. A flap of skin hung from the top and yellowish puss oozed from under it in little trickles. The ripped, bloody channels on his shoulder began to bleed lightly; the normally dark blood now a strange pinkish colour streaked with yellow.  
  
"Good Lords," Gimli muttered, but didn't move.  
  
Aragorn and Gimli exchanged a single uncertain glance, and then Aragorn leaned closer to see. "It's bad," he agreed, and then stood to retrieve his own kit from the mine. "Whatever you're using isn't working. I have something – "  
  
"No!" Greenleaf snapped, then back-peddled quickly. "I mean...uhh...you should have seen it before. It really is much better now than it was."  
  
"I doubt that. This is serious. If you don't get it cleared up – "  
  
"It'll be fine." Greenleaf uncorked the vial and tipped a few drops onto a clean gauze. "If it doesn't clear up in a few days I'll try your...whatever it is. Okay?" He placed the pronged – whatever it was – against the raw skin, punched it in as he'd done before, and yanked it out.  
  
Aragorn looked utterly dumbstruck. Gimli looked like his eyes were about to fall out of his head.  
  
Once the elf got his breath back he explained: "The healer told me to keep it open so it would drain." Then he pressed the gauze pad to it and began to re-wrap it tight.  
  
/He's lying,/ Aragorn thought again. "Two days." His eyes flickered briefly to the elf's shoulder then returned to the his face. "Two days and then I want a go at it, alright?"  
  
"That's what I said." Greenleaf smiled, but the smile was not for Aragorn but for the warmth spreading through him and the blessed silence returning. "Two days."  
  
Part 3  
  
Something less than three hours after breaking camp, Alflocksom and the others stood silently at the edge of another blocked entrance – one who's outcropping was in the shape of a hat with a fat feather in the side. A small flock of sparrows – no more than a dozen or so – stood on the top of the ruins staring cheekily down at the newcomers. Alflocksom pried a small stone from the debris and skipped it at them. The sparrows took to the air, twittering resentfully.  
  
Gatherings sparrows are said to be the harbingers of the living dead, a distant part of Alflocksom's mind reminded him. Sparrows are said to be the outriders of the dead. It's their job to guide lost souls back into the land of the living.  
  
Then he shook his head and scoffed at himself. /Don't be silly. Harbingers indeed. A dozen? Hardly. It's just a silly superstition./  
  
He glanced over to the boy who was looking at him solemnly. He smiled a little and the boy returned the smile.  
  
/See? Silly. And I'm a silly fool./  
  
The boy turned away, his eyes following the darting sparrows. Alflocksom watched the lad watch them. Even though it was too unbelievable, he was starting to believe it...but just barely.  
  
He shook his head as though shaking off a thought, and then turned back to Driton and dropped to one knee to take a closer look at what the tracker was pointing out. There, in the dirt was the distorted impression of boots and what looked like a flattened spot.  
  
"He fell here, and he wasn't alone," Driton said, his finger circling over the spot. "There was another spot beside it," he said, his narrowed gaze lifting and he sneered at one of the guards in the crowd, "but someone walked through it before I could stop them."  
  
"So there are two of them," Alflocksom said, stating the obvious, just for the record.  
  
"Aye, two," Driton replied. "One is the king, I'm guessing, and the other is smaller but stouter. His impression is larger girthed."  
  
"The dwarf." Alflocksom sneered.  
  
"Could be," Driton said thoughtfully, looking at the all-but-obliterated spot. "A dwarf would fit the mark. See?" There were two sets of footprints in the rock-powdery dust – one normal and one small. Alflocksom started to get up, looked again and squatted on his hunkers once more. Not two sets but three, the third marking the footprints of someone smaller than the two. Someone younger?  
  
"Good job, Driton," Alflocksom said, climbing to his feet. "And good job sending your runner so quickly."  
  
The man looked startled for a moment. "My runner?" he said. "I didn't send my runner." His eyes searched the faces and came to rest on a heavy- set, red-haired man sitting well back from the rest. "The runner I got saddled with is sitting over there. That's him. The red-haired ox on his rump," he said, pointing him out with a small nod of his head. "I just found this track not two minutes ago and was just about to send him out when you showed up." He smirked. "And lucky you came when you did. That great chunk can't get out of his own way without loosing his breath. It would have taken him half a day to get to you, the fat lout, but I'll wager good money over bad that he could outrace all the others if there was reward of a feast at the end of his journey."  
  
Alflocksom frowned. "But..."  
  
The captain's gaze lifted at the sound of feathers ruffling overhead. The sparrows were fluttering down and reassembling on the top of the ruins above them. There were more this time – a good three dozen. They weren't looking down at him though, he noticed, but over him. Their tiny, coal- black eyes were locked onto the boy...and his onto theirs.  
  
/Harbingers,/ some distant part of his mind thought. /Forerunners. Omens. The very idea is stupid, isn't it?/  
  
/Is it?/ the distant part of his mind asked...except it was rising now, more insistent, nudging urgently. /Orcs, dwarves, trolls, Sauron, wizards, demons... After all that's happened before and since the One Ring, and all the mysteries between heaven and the void yet to be revealed, isn't it safe to say that anything's possible? Even this?/  
  
The others didn't know. Didn't suspect. Didn't give the sparrows so much as a quick glance. Why would they? But Alflocksom knew something the others didn't – he had seen the boy's eyes. And not just seen them, but had seen inside them. Perhaps later he would tell them...but for now he would keep the knowledge to himself a little while longer. Besides, who'd believe it anyway?  
  
And there was the name. He didn't usually remember names well. It was Seigen who took care of names, and it was a rare occasion when he dropped one. But this one...not even he could forget this one. In Common Speech, most names mean many things as well as to provide a link to fathers and ancestors. The name Orome, however – Orome as in High-elven for Vorondil, but also known as Aldaron – had only one. Aldaron meant Lord of Forests. Seigen, Aic, and Vedt knew those stories, and right now they merely thought it a bit peculiar and quite humorous that the boy had that particular name. But to dare tell them the rest – tell them what he'd seen in the boy's eyes? He could almost picture it now...  
  
"Gentlemen, I have something to tell you. Guided by the sparrows – the harbingers – the Huntsman of the Valar, Steward of Gondor from the Elder days...days of the First Age and the Great Battle of the Valar when the world was young...the hunter of evil beings and monsters... original owner of the wild-ox horn bound with silver that had been passed down through the years to Boromir: the mighty horn of Gondor – Valaroma, has returned from the Undying Lands. And he's returned in the form of a fourteen-year-old boy."  
  
Friends or not, they'd laugh themselves sick...just before they would hog- tie him, throw him in the back of a wagon, and cart him off to the nearest mad house.  
  
Part 4  
  
That night, Gimli jerked bolt upright. He hadn't meant to fall asleep while on watch, it just...happened.  
  
He felt a crippling jolt of pain and knew what it was. Fear. Pure, raw, sickening fear. His eyes flittered about wildly. He just needed to make sure. He had an overwhelming urge to make absolutely certain that he was still here. Movement ahead. He saw a dark, lithe form hunch down by the fire. He heaved a huge sigh of relief and felt his panic slowly release it's tight stranglehold on his throat.  
  
The face slowly turned to him.  
  
Legolas.  
  
The elf was watching him with flat, dead eyes, his face utterly devoid of expression. It struck Gimli as ominous, stone, unnerving.  
  
/But am I only unnerved because the fire is backlighting Legolas' form and casting his face in shadows?/ the dwarf wondered. /Or... /  
  
No – there was no denying that there was something more that was not right there, and it had nothing to do with any shadows. He hadn't wanted to admit it and had called Aragorn a dim-witted fool for saying it when they had a moment alone, but now it was a clear as the markings on his axe: Aragorn was right – Legolas was insane.  
  
And dangerous.  
  
That realization and the indefinable look on the elf's face frightened the dwarf. He drew back as far as he could, pressing his back tightly against the mine's wall, and gripped the handle of his axe a little tighter.  
  
Legolas' eyes seemed to slowly clear as though he'd been in a walking dream.  
  
/Or am I the one dreaming,/ Gimli wondered. /Is this some nightmare within a nightmare?/  
  
/No,/ he thought. /This is definitely a nightmare, but I'm wide awake. I wish I was caught in a nightmare. Then when I wake up Legolas would be alright and would make some smart crack about how I shouldn't eat heavy food before going to bed./  
  
The elf slowly turned away. He remained hunched, squatting on his heels in front of the campfire. Light flashed across his face. Reflections of the fire, the dwarf knew, but also more than that – reflections flashing off steel. The elf was holding a knife and staring at it like his life depended on it. Unnerved, Gimli squeezed in tighter to the rock wall and pulled his blanket up to his chin. His eyes remained fixed on the elf for hours afterward until sleep finally took him when exhaustion overrode reason.  
  
Though Gimli didn't know it, he was perfectly safe, because his weren't the only eyes fixed on Legolas – Aragorn's eyes were also fixed.  
  
And his hand was fixed to the hilt of his sword.  
  
Part 5  
  
Legolas – pinned tight to the frozen floor in the black room – heard a voice. An unfamiliar voice. A voice not from a mouth or from Greenleaf, but one whispered into his mind. It asked one simple question: What are you willing to sacrifice?  
  
"Why?" he asked timidly. "Who is this?"  
  
The question came again: What are you willing to sacrifice?  
  
"For what?" he asked. "For myself? For Aragorn?"  
  
There was no answer. He didn't expected any. After all, he was insane. The insane don't get answers, just more questions.  
  
He was silent for a time, then said, "For me? Nothing. For a chance to save Aragorn? Everything. I'll sacrifice everything. Is that enough?"  
  
There was no answer, again. He didn't expected any. After all, he was insane. The insane don't get answers, just more and more and more questions. That strange voice likely wasn't real anyway – was it? It didn't matter, he supposed. He couldn't trust himself to know if it was or wasn't. Even if he knew, he still wouldn't know for sure. His thoughts were so jumbled that he didn't believe anything, anymore.  
  
He lay in the darkness, listening, waiting, when out of nowhere he had a strange feeling that something had changed. The weight – the iron grip that had held him down – lifted. Something was different. What? Then he knew, and it was almost too good to believe. Greenleaf's raging voice had stopped. Everything had stopped. It wasn't gone forever, he somehow knew, but for the moment it had stopped. The question was, why?  
  
He sat bolt upright – finally able – looked around wildly, and was instantly afraid. Afraid to ask. Afraid to question. Afraid to think. Afraid to move.  
  
Still, nothing.  
  
Silence.  
  
Merciful, blessed silence.  
  
Finally.  
  
Asleep? Could Greenleaf be asleep? Could he dare hope it was as simple as that?  
  
He waited. Listened. Barely dared breath. Still nothing.  
  
The darkness of the room started to lighten. Slowly at first, then faster. Blackness greyed...then grew brighter still. He saw the dim outline of what looked to be some sort of a doorway. He struggled to his unsteady feet and stumbled toward it. Before his trembling hand could raise to touch it, it swung open. Blinding orange light spilled through from the other side. He felt half-mad with joy and relief.  
  
He had an opportunity.  
  
A chance.  
  
And fearful or not, he would take it.  
  
Part 6  
  
It had taken almost three-quarters of the night but finally the elf lay down on the far side of the fire and pulled his blanket up to his chin. After a few moments his eyes half-lidded and his breathing steadied – a sure sign that he was asleep. Aragorn breathed an inward sigh of relief and relaxed a hair, but no more than that. He was fully aware of how lightning quick the elf was and refused to let his guard down more than a tiny shade. Especially now. Something was so wrong that if he wasn't seeing him with his own eyes he would never believe that this was Legolas. Whatever had happened was far worse than any injury or some strange sickness.  
  
/Two,/ Aragorn's mind whispered, replaying the words of the dream. /We are nothing alike./  
  
/You got that right,/ he thought.  
  
Something flashed. It struck his bedroll (which was currently doubling as a pillow) with a soft snick less than three finger-widths above his head. He craned his neck to see what it was. A knife hilt stood quivering just above him, its blade buried deep. His eyes cut back to Legolas. He had shifted and was lying on his side facing him, staring at him, his eyes wide and sparkling in the firelight. The gaze grabbed Aragorn's and he had the sensation of being tugged forward, helpless, held fast by the rigidity of the gaze. Legolas' face seemed different; gone were the hard edges and angles. It seemed...frightened, looser. He was licking his lips over and over again as though terrified to speak yet desperately needing to.  
  
"Legolas?" Aragorn said quietly, lifting his head off his bedroll to watch him.  
  
"Take it," Legolas whispered so quietly it was as if the words were as a breath on the air. "And these." Without rising he lobbed the bow, quiver, and second knife bound together as one ungainly package over Aragorn to land behind him. "Hide them." Legolas listened to himself speak as though from miles away. The words simply emerged, unbidden, mournful, powerless. "He sleeps now, but not for long."  
  
Legolas paused.  
  
"Send Gimli away with my weapons at first light. He plans on going for him first. Then you."  
  
"Who, Legolas? What's going on?" Aragorn whispered back while reaching up and pulling the dagger from the bedroll and adding it to the collection of weapons behind him.  
  
"Greenleaf. Me. The dark me. He wants to destroy everything I love, everything I hold dear."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Hate. Not hate for you, but hate for me."  
  
Legolas hesitated again. Then he reached beneath his blanket and untied the small drawstring leather pouch from his belt. He held it up and tossed it before the ranger / king.  
  
Aragorn didn't make a move to take it. "What is it, Legolas? I know it's not medicine."  
  
"It's not. Take it. The liquid in a vial... He draws his strength from it, and my strength from me."  
  
Aragorn reached slowly for it. His hand closed around it, and without looking inside he drew it under his blanket. "What can I do? How can I help you?"  
  
"You can't stop him and I'm not strong enough." Legolas paused, nervously licking his lips again, his eyes flittering as though straining to listening. After a moment his gaze refastened on Aragorn's and he continued. "He means to kill you, and he will if you don't stop this."  
  
"How? How do I stop this?"  
  
Silence. Then, "I have to die, Aragorn. I'm ready." Legolas locked Aragorn's eyes. The shine had left his, and now looking at them was like looking into twin pits of hell and despair. Aragorn shivered, more because of the heart-rending stare than because of what Legolas had said. But the words...they were the same words from the premonition.  
  
Aragorn was wearing a small frown. Now it faded. "Ready to... No." He blinked. Swallowed, hard. "No. I-I can't."  
  
"There's no other way." Breaths of words came out of Legolas' mouth as if spoken by someone else, some lost, frightened little child. "You have to do it. Aragorn, I can't stop it. Please. You don't understand – you can't save me. He'll lock me away in that black prison again, and next time I'll never get out. For pity sake, don't do this to me."  
  
There was a long silence. Legolas knew Aragorn was not considering his request.  
  
"Please," he said again. He was struck the how hopeless, how pitiful the very sound of the word was. "Don't leave me like this. I'm lost. I'm nothing. Please."  
  
He hesitated again.  
  
"Aragorn, I'm dying. We both are. It's already begun." His pleading eyes were bright with pain and weariness. Pity tugged at Aragorn's heart. Pity and his own personal pain. "As my friend, my brother, if our friendship meant anything to you, you will strike true and end this nightmare."  
  
Aragorn couldn't answer; the pain in his heart was as a great lump in his throat, cutting off all words. He did the only thing he could do - he nodded.  
  
Tbc...


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

And Speaking Of The Void...  
  
Part 1  
  
Morning came with sunrise painting the bottoms of the light clouds a blood- red. They triggered a memory in Aragorn of one such sunrise the three had seen during the long days of the fellowship. "Red sun rises," Legolas had said. "Blood had been spilled this night." Blood had been spilled yesterday. Legolas had spilled his own. Or rather, Greenleaf had spilled Legolas' when he'd ripped his shoulder open.  
  
The fellowship. That seemed like a million years ago now. So much had changed. At the time, the year with the fellowship seemed to stretch on to forever, and yet now it seemed as though it had been a mere blink. But what he wouldn't give to blink again. For that matter, what he wouldn't give to be young and naïve again instead of here and facing this.  
  
/What if Legolas had sailed right after the ring had been destroyed?/ he wondered.  
  
No, no, he wouldn't go there. The 'What If' game was a dangerous road to travel. There were too many traps that led to other 'what if' traps. What if his father hadn't been his father? What if Lord Elrond hadn't taken him in? What if he'd never met Legolas, or Gimli, or Gandalf, or any of them? What if he hadn't been asked to join the fellowship? Would it have failed? Maybe, but maybe not. What if it had? If any of those things hadn't happened the way they did, at least he wouldn't be sitting here contemplating Legolas' request. And he wouldn't be playing the 'What If' game now.  
  
But they had...and he was.  
  
Without warning or ceremony, Aragorn awoke Gimli with a gentle touch on his shoulder (and a hand over his mouth) and then sent him safely back to Minas Tirith with the draw-string pouch and weapons before Legolas stirred.  
  
/That was the problem though, wasn't it?/ he thought. /Legolas stirring. When the elf wakes, would he awaken as Legolas or Greenleaf?/  
  
As if on command, the elf groaned. Shifted.  
  
Aragorn repositioned himself on his blanket then silently drew his sword and laid it on the ground before him. His fist gripped the hilt so tight his knuckles turned chalk-white. He readied himself for anything.  
  
Greenleaf awoke slowly and in a fair bit of pain. His left shoulder throbbed not only with need of the liquid, but with fire. As a matter of fact, everything from his shoulder to his elbow burned with an incredible heat. Infection, he knew. But the infection could wait. The pain of need was stronger. He reached for his pouch...but his fingers found nothing. He patted himself down. Still nothing. He sat up, threw his blanket off, and checked the ground. Stood. Shook the blanket carefully. Scanned the ground. Then he turned slowly, slowly.  
  
"Looking for something?" Aragorn asked.  
  
For only a moment the elf dropped all pretence, but in that moment Aragorn could see the change. Hate mixed with stunned shock. There was a recognition on Aragorn's part – a recognition of the darkness. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword while he played his trump card before the elf could compose himself.  
  
"So what do I call you? because you're obviously not Legolas."  
  
The elf smiled slowly, and with it all pretence fell away. "But I am. Think of me as the dirty little secret he kept well hidden until now. You can call me Greenleaf."  
  
"Well, Greenleaf, it seems that you and I have come to a stalemate. I have something you want, and you have something I want."  
  
"Oh?" the elf asked casually, still believing he had the upper hand. "And what would that be?"  
  
"I have your liquid and you have my friend. What say you and I try to work something out?"  
  
Greenleaf's eyes flittered over the camp. "Where's Gimli?" he asked, then answered his own question with: "No doubt off burying it."  
  
"Not really. He's gone."  
  
The elf's face fell. "Gone? Gone where?"  
  
"Back to Minas Tirith."  
  
Greenleaf paled. "With it?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But..."  
  
"But what?"  
  
The elf gave a long sweeping bow. "Congratulations, Aragorn. You found me out – no doubt with a little help from that snivelling coward of a counterpart of mine." He sighed as though bored. "But you know I'll have to get it back. So now I'm left with a bit of a dilemma. I can either go around you, or through you. I prefer through, but how about I let you decide?"  
  
"Try me," Aragorn said flatly.  
  
"What are you going to do?" Greenleaf asked with a laugh. "Beat the beejeebers out of me? Kill me? You'll be killing Legolas too, you know."  
  
"I know. But I can't let you leave here, so if that's what it takes..."  
  
"How noble of you. With friends like you, who needs enemies?" Greenleaf snorted a mirthless laugh. "And after all I've done for you. Do you even know what I've done for you?" he asked. He didn't wait for an answer, just continued: "Do you know how many times I saved your miserable hide, Aragorn? How many hits I took for you? How many times I risked my life for you? Took stitches for you? Jumped to your rescue? Protected you when you were down, unarmed, and outnumbered? I'll tell you how many – one too many." Greenleaf's light-blue eyes gleamed dangerously. "And did you ever acknowledge me for it?" He shook his head. "Never. Not once." He paused, and Aragorn knew he was not waiting for an answer in that pause but weighing what to say next. Finally: "Do you know how much I despise you for it?"  
  
"You didn't do those things on your own, Greenleaf. Legolas was a part of it all. You've never done anything alone, until now."  
  
The elf smiled, but that smile had nothing to do with warmth or pleasantries. It was about as cold as they came. "You got me there. But I'm alone now."  
  
"I know."  
  
DAMN YOU, LEGOLAS! Greenleaf's thoughts roared. YOU MISERABLE LITTLE... DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE? YOU'VE KILLED US BOTH!  
  
There was no answer. He didn't expect any.  
  
And I don't intend to share this body with you!  
  
Then suddenly Legolas – the light side – was slammed to the floor of his black prison. The dark voice screamed and ranted about the degree of suffering he had earned for his traitorous collaboration...and he was terrified and lonely – so very, horribly lonely.  
  
And cold.  
  
"Stop it!" Legolas screamed at him. "Just stop it! You were gone for awhile. Leave me alone!"  
  
Did you give it to him?  
  
"Greenleaf, please..."  
  
DID YOU?  
  
Horrendous pain suddenly tore through Legolas. He felt like he was being sawed in half.  
  
ANSWER ME!  
  
Legolas was going to scream out loud, no doubt about it. He could feel it rising out of the depths like a runaway cart. It boiled up like a sickness – his sickness – then exploded out of his mouth in a long, anguished wail.  
  
"YES! LEAVE – ME – ALONE!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "ARAGORN, FOR THE LOVE OF THE LORDS, HELP ME!"  
  
He pounded his temples with his fists. Skittered backwards. Drew his knees up to his chest. Linked his arms around them. Began to rock back and forth. Lowered his head into his arms and sobbed.  
  
Shut tight in the black prison of living hell and nightmare-madness, Legolas had no way of knowing that he had somehow managed to take his body along for the ride. Aragorn watched and heard the whole battle unfold before him and felt his heart shattering into a million pieces. His face wet with tears, he fought his own internal battle not to jump up, race for him, and gather him in his arms. That was the single defining moment between denial and acceptance. Proof positive, right there before his eyes. There was simply no way to deny this anymore. The words were terrible, the voice tearing his heart out by the roots, the sobbing – an agony beyond heartbreak; but it was more than the words, the sobbing, or the voice, and he knew what it was: the last of Legolas – Legolas the light side – was expiring painfully in front of him. It could not be seen as clearly as the premonitions had shown, but Aragorn could feel its fading all the same. He tried to make himself blind to the sights and deaf to the words and sounds. It wasn't easy.  
  
Then the elf abruptly stilled. And with it, Aragorn knew that there was a winner in this ugly game of control. But which one? It was too much to hope that Legolas had won, but still, he couldn't help but hope.  
  
/Greenleaf or Legolas?/ Aragorn wondered as he lifted his sword onto his lap. /Greenleaf or Legolas, Greenleaf or Legolas, Greenleaf or.../  
  
The elf slowly raised hid head. Teeth pulled back from his lips in a wolf- like sneer. "You," he growled, his voice raspy and gravely and every bit the animal he was.  
  
The elf's eyes were aflame with hatred and loathing and fire, and in that one word, Aragorn knew at last. The light side that had been dying had given over. Legolas was gone. Just like that. Here, at the mouth of this mine in the middle of nowhere, Legolas had given up. If the light side was still somewhere in there, it was so weak and tiny that it would never be able to take over again without consent. What sat before him now was a merciless monster with complete and permanent control.  
  
"You're dead, Aragorn," Greenleaf said in a soft, thick voice. "Do you hear me? Dead."  
  
Aragorn raised his sword and touched the flat of the blade to his forehead. "I'm not the one who's unarmed, Greenleaf, you are," he said with tears still drying on his face.  
  
"Just out of curiosity, when did you know?" Greenleaf asked, pulling his blanket toward him.  
  
"I knew before I arrived. And you proved it the moment you walked into this mine. Legolas would never go into a mine willingly."  
  
"The firewood." He nodded slowly. "Hmmm, true. I hadn't thought of that," the elf said in a distant, muttering voice. Then looked at him with narrowing eyes. "He's too much of a coward.  
  
"He's my friend."  
  
"You mean he was your friend." Greenleaf closed his hands over the hilts of two knives Ridley had loosely sewn into the folds of the blanket for just such an occasion. "He's dead... and so are you!"  
  
The blanket flew aside with a snap as Greenleaf wrenched the knives free of their thread tethers. Both man and elf were rising off the ground at the same time – Aragorn raising his sword as he did, anticipating this turn of events, and Greenleaf flipping both knives in his hands to hold them by their tips. Both were tensed and ready...but Greenleaf lingered for a moment, looking at Aragorn. The elf's face – his eyes – seemed to change; flickering with...Aragorn didn't know what it was, but he knew what it wasn't: for that minuscule beat it wasn't hate, at least. Then they darkened once again.  
  
Aragorn only had time for one clear thought: /Legolas... /  
  
...before Greenleaf drove both knives straight for his throat.  
  
Cat-like quick, Aragorn twisted as he rose and deflected one with his sword, but couldn't deflect both. The second one slammed halfway to it's hilt into the bicep of his right arm. The sword slipped from his instantly numb hand and clattered to the floor.  
  
Greenleaf made a lightning step forward and swept Aragorn's legs from under him. The king crumpled to the ground.  
  
The elf was on him on a heartbeat, shoving him backwards. Not on, Aragorn realized, but over. The elf was down on one knee, one fist bunching the shoulder of his tunic while leaning over him and reaching for the deflected knife behind him.  
  
Aragorn twisted and threw himself to one side, momentarily knocking the elf off balance and slipping free of his grasp at the same time. As Greenleaf toppled forward, Aragorn lashed up and out with both feet, connected, and rocked the elf back with a hard kick to the stomach. Greenleaf grunted before staggering backwards on his knees, then swayed drunkenly back and forth. Aragorn jumped to his feet and gave Greenleaf a solid kick to the chest as he got up.  
  
The elf grabbed Aragorn's ankle.  
  
He was down.  
  
Aragorn twisted and kicked back. The heel of his boot connected squarely with the elf's chin, whipping his head back. He leapt to his feet and clouted Greenleaf so hard that he staggered backwards on his knees and almost fell. But he didn't fall. Aragorn's fist made contact again, and Greenleaf's head snapped back with the hard wallop that sent a fresh spray of blood flying from his mouth. He still didn't fall. Aragorn whirled and gave him a roundhouse kick to the stomach.  
  
Greenleaf grunted in pain and fell over backwards, but less than a blink later he shot his feet out and scissored Aragorn's ankles between his legs. He twisted for all he was worth and brought Aragorn down again.  
  
The elf scrambled forward. His hand closed over the hilt of the deflected knife.  
  
Aragorn knew he had only seconds before Greenleaf would be on top of him.  
  
Buy time.  
  
Aragorn did a sidekick to Greenleaf's throat and he fell backwards.  
  
Greenleaf recovered and was on top of him, straddling him, his knife coming toward his chest when Aragorn became aware of his arm again – it felt hot and swollen and full of fire. He tore the knife free from his bicep and thrust it upward.  
  
Greenleaf froze as the blade of the knife slipped against his throat. It pressed tightly against the tender skin right over his jugular. For the first time he looked shocked, and for the first time in his memory Greenleaf felt control over a situation slip away...except how could it be? How could he have let this injured human get the drop on him? This should have already been over.  
  
It had to be Legolas' doing, Greenleaf thought. The coward must have done something, slowed me somehow.  
  
"Back – off," Aragorn hissed at him through clenched teeth, his narrowed eyes twin pits of black fury ... although there was now a beat of strain under the tone. No, that wasn't right. Not strain. Strain-ing. The good, old-fashioned, 'gets-your-old-heart-pumping-and-blood-racing' kind of strain; the 'fighting himself wanting to deliver that final stroke so badly that he had to forcefully restrain himself from doing it,' strain – Greenleaf thought sourly. He had underestimated Aragorn; if nothing else was clear, that was. Lords, to have made a mistake like this!  
  
"I mean it," Aragorn hissed, "Back off, Greenleaf, or I'll cut your throat."  
  
Greenleaf backed down, although reluctantly, and very slowly moved away. Aragorn rose to his feet, panting. Sweat soaked hair fell into his eyes but he didn't dare brush it away.  
  
"Drop the knife," Aragorn ordered.  
  
"Take it from me," was the casual reply.  
  
Aragorn knew he couldn't. He had to let it go, for now.  
  
Checkmate. They were at a standstill.  
  
They stood staring each other down for the Lords only knew how long (all Aragorn knew for sure was that his arm pulsed sharply as though it was ticking off the seconds), then Greenleaf finally, grudgingly, yield two steps backward and stuck the knife into the back waistband of his breeches. He meant to see Aragorn dead before the day was over. He knew there was a good chance that Aragorn might take him with him, but he no longer cared about that. He dabbed blood from his freshly split lip and looked at it thoughtfully.  
  
"Call it morbid curiosity," Greenleaf said. "Since Gimli, my weapons, and the pouch are gone, I assume that you and Legolas had a nice little chat while I slept last night. So, did he tell you everything, or do you just not care?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Aragorn winced as he flexed his arm.  
  
Greenleaf shrugged. "Don't be so lords-holy about it. You know what I mean. The liquid." His eyes were strangely calm and never leaving Aragorn's face. "He and I will die within a week without it. Did he tell you that?" he asked, although he thought he already knew the answer.  
  
Aragorn made no reply. Knowing Legolas, he guessed that was the truth.  
  
"No?" The elf cackled happily at the silence for a moment, then his face grew still and grave once more. All humour switched off as quickly as snuffing out a candle.  
  
Aragorn made no reply again. There was no need.  
  
"I didn't think so," Greenleaf said, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Of course, knowing him, he didn't want to make you feel bad." He gingerly wiped at a suborn trickle of blood on his chin then swiped his forearm across his eyes, brushing away soaked tangles of long hair. "So let's see... Gimli's on the way back to Minas Tirith with it. It's – what? – four days travel from here? A long way for a short legged dwarf. Two-and-a-half for me. That gives me four-and-a-half days to kill you." He ginned lopsidedly, his lower lip already swelling. "How long can you go without sleep, Aragorn? You look like death now. I'll wager it won't be too long before you drop in your tracks. So unless you know something I don't, either you'll have to kill me now, or I'll end up killing you. No matter how you look at it, one of us isn't going to make it out of here." He shrugged. "Of course, you could always let me go."  
  
"No, I don't think so."  
  
Greenleaf nodded. "I didn't think you would." He lowered himself down to the floor, leaned his back against the wall, laid the knife on his lap, and stretched his legs out before him.  
  
"So what now? Sit here and wait to see which one of us drops first?"  
  
Aragorn honestly didn't know.  
  
Part 2  
  
Alflocksom provided Orome with a horse and had him ride next to him where he could keep a good watch on him. He felt more at ease with the boy up beside him than he would have had he been behind him. Still uncertain of his suspicions, he didn't want to take any chances right now. If he was right, he don't want to insult Middle Earth's mightiest hunter by having him ride behind him. He wanted him where he's nice and happy. If he was wrong, what did it hurt to have the runner who had brought the good news ride in the place of honour beside him? None. And as he'd expected, no one so much as raised a brow in question.  
  
Alflocksom watched the boy ride and noted that either he was a natural or his suspicions had been correct all along – the boy rode with the soft hands, perfect seat, and quiet confidence of one born for it. And to top it off, the normally quiet older mount was prancing with the barely restrained energy of a young stallion ten years his junior – nostrils flared, thick, muscular neck proudly arched, tail flagged, and ears pricked, as though he knew who was atop him and was very proud of that fact.  
  
/Is this a good time?/ Alflocksom wondered, then he answered himself with: /Would there ever be a better time?/  
  
He leaned in his saddle to speak quietly. "May I ask you a question, Orome?"  
  
The boy turned to him and nodded as he pulled the cloak tighter about his shoulders. There had been kindness, huge kindness, from the moment the captain saved him from embarrassment at the base camp, but still, the giving of the cloak was too generous. Before they had left base the boy had stepped forward to give up the cloak. But Captain Alflocksom had refused to take it, hiding his generosity under a veil of concern about the cold, and had again insisted he wear it and consider it his. It was a gallant thing for the captain to do, and that act of benevolence wasn't lost on the boy. It certainly gave him an insight into the character of the man hidden beneath the formidable bearing of the legendary captain.  
  
"Why are you here?" Alflocksom asked, risking being blunt.  
  
The boy grinned. "Same reason you are here, captain."  
  
He nodded. "To find the king."  
  
"That, and for reasons of my own, sir," the boy corrected. "There is more than one way to save him and Gondor both, and more than one reason for it." He was hedging and Alflocksom knew it, but he also knew he would reveal no more for now. That door was closed. "Meantime, let's concentrate on finding him – time is growing short."  
  
The boy glanced up at the canopy above them. Alflocksom's eyes followed the gaze. He blinked in surprise. The trees seemed alive with glittering eyes and fluttering wings. Sparrows. Hundreds of sparrows. Perhaps thousands. They seemed to be following them, hopping and moving from tree branch to tree branch keeping just ahead of them. The sight sent a shiver up Alflocksom's spine. Their movements didn't seem to be bothering the boy any, though, just serving to distract him a little.  
  
And speaking of distractions, although Alflocksom was distracted, he wasn't done with him yet. He looked closely – almost sternly – at Orome. "Short?"  
  
The boy stuck out his lower lip and blew a dark curl of hair off his forehead. "Yes, sir," he said, his gaze lifting again to the sparrows. "Time is a concern, and it grows short."  
  
They reached the place that would become, once the fire was lit, just another campsite on the road to...wherever they were headed, and from ahead a guard riding beside the tracker turned in his saddle and called back: "Shall we stop here, sir?"  
  
Before Alflocksom could answer, the boy touched his arm and shook his head. "No. We have to keep moving now," he said, with all the open sincerity of one veteran warrior talking to another. "It wouldn't be wise to stop. Any delay now might prove disastrous."  
  
"No," Alflocksom called up. "We keep moving."  
  
Part 3  
  
The next three days were relatively uneventful – the hardest thing being trying to stay awake – but things started to slide downhill after that.  
  
It was obvious with each passing minute that the elf was feeling the absence of the liquid in a big way. He grew more and more jittery, more and more agitated, and more and more ... strange. It had been well past midnight when he'd finally stopped threatening and pacing back and forth like a caged animal and squatted down in front of the fire. The campfire glittered off the knife blade, flashing the orange light straight into Greenleaf's eyes. He stared, mesmerized, fascinated, and utterly absorbed by the flashes, unable to tear his eyes away. This was the first time in hours that he didn't shake like the last stubborn leaf clinging to a tree in a winter wind. The flashes transfixed him. Gave him some peace. Some comfort.  
  
Aragorn glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and wondered how he was going to get the knife away from him. He should have thought of that before and demanded he disarm when he still had the strength to push it, but... And now it was going to be nearly impossible to take it without a fight. He didn't want to fight. He was too tired. He knew he'd loose. Luckily the elf didn't know that, yet. He was too busy with his own problems right now. Besides, his sword-arm was throbbing incessantly. The hurried stitches had broken open. It was bleeding. He was bleeding. Not badly, but badly enough. Not a good thing to be doing right now. Not with everything else that was going on. And especially not with him the way he was.  
  
Stitches. That had been a real test of wills. He'd barely held Greenleaf at bay. Each time Aragorn's eyes had left the elf for even a moment, he had moved closer. It had been difficult, not to mention awkward, to hold a needle and a knife in the same hand, since the other was too numb to function. So what should have taken five minutes had ended up taking more than an hour, and it was a sloppy job to say the least. On the up side, at least Greenleaf hadn't thrown his knife again. He obviously wasn't willing to risk throwing it again in case Aragorn managed to deflect it, and this time he didn't get it back.  
  
Aragorn peeked at the blood-soaked wrap though the tear in his shirtsleeve and thought: /I really should re-stitch it./ But he wasn't up for that either. The best he'd managed to do was wrap it tight and hope for the best.  
  
/What's another scar anyway when you get right down to it?/ he mused. /In the grand scheme of things, a scar is nothing...unless I bleed to death./ He almost laughed out loud at that thought. /After everything that happened, wouldn't that be a hoot? Bleed to death now. If I did, then it would have all been for nothing./  
  
/Anyhow,/ he thought, shaking his head and the stubborn thought from his mind, /that brings me back to the big question...or aspect...or whatever you want to call it, that I've been putting off until now: How am I going to take the knife? Shoot him? Challenge him? Tackle him to the ground and rip it out of his fist? Sure. Fat chance. Not bloody likely right now. It would have been nip-and-tuck before, but now with my arm practically useless, it would be impossible. Besides, it's the only thing keeping him quiet right now./  
  
No, he'll watch him, he decided. Closely. See what he does first and hope that he doesn't do anything rash.  
  
Lords he was tired...  
  
Aragorn had been slouched with his back against the rock wall, crazily close to dozing in spite of everything. Now he sat up so suddenly that he grimaced as another stitch broke.  
  
/No, no, no, no! No sleeping!/ he told himself. /Are you crazy? You wouldn't wake up – not with him the way he is. You have to stay awake until this is over...if it's ever over./  
  
His gaze cut back to his charge. He hadn't moved; thank the Lords. Hadn't noticed his momentary error, either. Too busy fighting his own dragons now, Aragorn supposed. He hoped it would be over soon. He couldn't take much more. Problem was, he knew it had barely begun. The worse was yet to come. The dragons were growing.  
  
/I should talk to him, he thought. Comfort him. I wonder if there's a small part of Legolas left that can still hear me? It can't be over yet. Not yet. I have to try./  
  
"It'll be alright, Legolas. You'll be alright. I won't leave you."  
  
Aragorn saw the elf stiffen slightly – that was about it – but that one tiny movement made his heart leap. It told him something very important: there was still a piece left. There was still hope.  
  
/Aragorn? Is that you?/ some distant part of the mind that was Legolas asked... except it was small and frightened and weakening by the moment in it's black prison. /Are you real?/  
  
For a moment – and it was only a moment – there was a sensation of two hands grasping two knives. The feeling was too clear, too real, to be anything but real.  
  
But it's not real, and neither is he, another part of his mind thought...except this part was stronger; it's voice rising to drown out the other. He's not real because nothing is real. Nothing is as it seems. Our lessons. Remember our lessons. Remember what I have to do – what I'm going to do. Once I do it, this will all go away. All the pain will disappear.  
  
/No, it won't. It's too late now./  
  
SHUT UP! Greenleaf screamed furiously, but Legolas noted a touch of panic in that voice that had never been there before. It's not too late! Besides, you're almost dead. Now finish and be done with it.  
  
/It's happening,/ Legolas thought to himself. /Greenleaf is starting to fail too, and he knows it. We're both failing now. Soon... /  
  
"Legolas, I know you can still hear me," Aragorn said gently. "You'll be alright, my friend." He paused, waiting for some tell-tale hint that he had heard him...some glimmer of hope...anything. But this time it didn't come. "You have to fight this, Legolas. Fight with everything you have left. I won't leave you; I swear it. I'm here for you. You'll be alright."  
  
Greenleaf listened. Legolas listened. Both wanted to believe him but both knew better. The end was coming and there was nothing Aragorn could do to stop it. Nothing anyone could do. It was too late. It was too late from the start.  
  
Fool me once, Greenleaf mused, fool me twice – what's that old saying, Legolas? He didn't answer. It didn't matter, Greenleaf supposed. He wasn't a fool anymore. It was hard to believe that he'd ever been so trusting. He'd actually fought along side Aragorn. But that was before, when the world made sense...before everything changed. Before he'd changed. Before he became they.  
  
The light twinkled in his eyes, drawing his mind away – away from all the pain and away from this musty place, and more importantly, away from the place before.  
  
Another flash, and this time a vision came, hovering before him, its face twisted into a sardonic grin. Phantom freezing pain tore at his shoulder. He gasped. Stared transfixed at the floating face that only he could see. The visage twisted, twisted into...  
  
(Two hands and two knives)  
  
/My lords,/ Legolas thought as Greenleaf dropped the knife to the ground and recoiled. /Aragorn?/  
  
No, fool. Not Aragorn. Ridley. Damn him to the void for this!  
  
"Legolas?" Aragorn called.  
  
Greenleaf's eyes flew to Aragorn, but it wasn't his face he saw but one hideous face after another overlapping his features. Faces of the slain. Faces of those he'd slain in battle. Blood. Pain. Then the worst: fear of knowing with absolute certainty that they were about to die. His eyes lowered back down to the glittering knife blade.  
  
He knew Aragorn was watching him and that he likely looked like a lunatic staring at the knife like some drunken fool, but he didn't care. After what had happened, he didn't care about much anymore. His shoulder ached, pulsing with pain, but he didn't care about that either. He only cared about one very important thing – want. He wanted. He needed. Lords, did he need. Every square inch of him screamed for it. Begged. Pleaded. Drooled. And as soon as Aragorn dozed off or passed out or nodded off or whatever he was going to do, he'd do what he had to do and then he'd go after Gimli.  
  
Maybe it isn't too late yet. Maybe... How many days had passed? he wondered. Three? Six? He couldn't remember. He could barely think.  
  
His shoulder began aching in earnest.  
  
Patience. He could wait awhile. Not much longer though.  
  
So bad. So bad. Pain tingled everywhere - from his scalp to the bottoms of his feet.  
  
/You're fooling yourself, Greenleaf. You can't take him now. You know you can't. It's over./  
  
SHUT UP! WHO ASKED YOU?  
  
Stay focused, Greenleaf reminded himself. He still had a job to do. He wasn't finished yet.  
  
Lessons. Remember the lessons. He recited them under his breath:  
  
"Always believe you; you, and only you.  
  
"You control time, everything, and me.  
  
"Nothing is as it seems; only you and your words.  
  
"You are the only one I trust and the only one I listen to; you are my only reality, my liberator, and my only salvation."  
  
When Aragorn nods off he'd take this  
  
(flashing beacon of hope)  
  
knife and drive it into his heart.  
  
Part 4  
  
The boy touched his finger to his lips and then pointed up to the trees. Alflocksom glanced up. His eyes widened and his face fell slack as he stared at them.  
  
There were sparrows everywhere. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Likely more. An unbelievable, staggering, mind blowing amount. Tree limbs in the canopy above hung low with the weight of them...watching. Every small head was pointed in the boy's direction; every eye focused and boring holes into him. Every one of them sat motionless, waiting...for a command? An army? Yes, this was an army. The perfect army.  
  
The captain's eyes flittered over his men. They seemed not to notice what was going on above them. /Am I the only one who sees this,/ he wondered. /Are these real?/  
  
Between. He had the chilling sensation that they were walking the fine line between the living and the dead.  
  
Fierce, angry eyes followed the boy's every move. Heads cocked and bodies leaned far forward, their tiny claws gripping the wood and tightening. Don't make a sound – Alflocksom knew deep inside as though by some instinct. One sound and this place would explode in a blizzard of feathers, and afterward, there wouldn't be enough left of them to find, much less bury.  
  
The captain heard a faint rustle of feathers behind them. He glanced back over his shoulder. His heart pounded like a giant drum in his chest as he scanned for movement. One bird, unbalanced, had fluttered down to a lower and less occupied branch. No others moved, not one inch. He let his breath out silently and faced forward again.  
  
Alflocksom had an ugly thought: /How many sparrows would it take to completely remove every trace of them from existence?/ What ever the answer, there were more than enough here to accomplish it, and then some. The thick canopy above was black with shapes and steely, piercing eyes. And there was the smell...the thick, heavy, musty smell of dust – bone dust – like opening some sealed ancient tomb and being hit by that first stagnant whiff of long dead air. Glancing up again, he silently cursed himself for making such a stupid mistake as to have questioned his gut instincts about Orome and the sparrows. If he lived through this, he swore to himself that he would never second guess his instincts again.  
  
The sound started slowly – a sound like the fall of raindrops. It steadily built to a shower, then a downpour. They're preparing to fly, Alflocksom knew. He didn't know how he knew (he hadn't looked around to see it) but he knew it all the same. Suddenly the massive flock of sparrows – too many to guess their number now (/or would want to know for sure,/ Alflocksom thought with a shiver) – mounted the sky in a wild roar of feathers. They tore ahead of them and disappeared to the north.  
  
The sparrows weren't waiting anymore.  
  
The boy's eyes grew hazy, as if he looked upon some hidden scene. "Something has happened." He reined his horse to a stop and closed his eyes for a moment, then whispered, "Time is running out."  
  
Part 5  
  
Greenleaf sat with his back braced against the rock wall and his knees drawn up to his chest. Awhile ago, his hands had started to tremble lightly. Now his hands and legs were shaking uncontrollable as though he was back in his ice prison, not in a warm mine. His teeth were chattering and his muscles were twitching in light spasms. He was sweating again; his breath ragged. None of that was lost on Aragorn.  
  
None of it was lost on Greenleaf, either. He understood what was happening to him. He understood everything. He just couldn't do anything about it. He felt like his skin was trying to peel off his body. He was past the point of weakening and heading south fast. Now it was too late. He knew that. Legolas knew that too.  
  
So did Aragorn. And it was killing him.  
  
The elf's stomach lurched. He tried to swallow but he was too dry. His stomach suddenly cramped so hard that it stole his breath. He hissed in pain and then moaned lightly, shivers racking his entire body. His stomach flipped again. He ignored it as best he could until his stomach clenched as though grabbed by a huge fist. He hissed aloud and sucked his breath in sharply.  
  
Trembling from head to foot, he growled though chattering teeth: "Are you w- watching, Aragorn? You know w-what's h-happening, d-d-don't you?"  
  
"Yes." The word came out as a choked sob.  
  
"I'm d-dying, thanks to you. But s-s-so is Legolas," Greenleaf said, trying unsuccessfully to control his trembling voice.  
  
"I know."  
  
"You miserable – "  
  
His stomach heaved and he tasted burning bile in the back of his throat. His clothes felt as though they were made of thousands of tiny, sharp needles imbedding themselves into his skin. His head thumped and his heart raced. Legolas is right, Greenleaf realized. I'm dying. I'm actually dying.  
  
No! This... this is craziness. I'm an immortal. A liquid can't do this, it just can't!  
  
/It's true, Greenleaf. Please, let me talk to Aragorn. It's too late for either of us. Just let me say goodbye to him./  
  
NO! I WON'T GIVE YOU CONTROL! LORDS ALMIGHTY, WILL YOU SHUT UP! I–I CAN'T HEAR MYSELF THINK!  
  
Pain crept in so slowly that at first he hardly noticed it. Suddenly he was swamped in a sea of it; soaked; drowning... He heard himself moaning as though from far away. His eyes rolled. Dizzy, he leaned his head back against the wall. Away went his stomach again, cramping horribly. He linked his arms over his knees and dropped his head into them to try to relieve some of the intense pain. It worked...for a moment. He tried swallowing again. His stomach suddenly heaved so hard that he couldn't stop it. Moaning, his tented hands on the ground, he shifted sideways and threw up. His head hung low as he gasped to catch his breath.  
  
As Greenleaf wiped his mouth with the back of a shaking hand, Aragorn had to stop himself from hurrying to him. He saw the dreadful pain on the elf's face – the too pale cheeks, the haunted eyes, the trembling lips. He forced himself to look away.  
  
/Greenleaf, please... / Legolas begged from the darkness that was his prison. /Please let me – /  
  
Oh lords, just shut up.  
  
Ridley's face floated in front of his eyes. It wasn't real, he knew – just a memory from before – but his mind insisted it was real and happening right now, and at this point he couldn't fight the memory if he wanted to...  
  
The face – Ridley's face – split into a wide grin, then chuckled with unconcealed delight.  
  
"Too bad, Legolas," he said, tisk-tisking as he pulled a small vial from his shirt pocket and held it up as though examining it. "You're in some ugly pain. An here's what would fix you up right and proper. But you won't lower yourself to ask for it, will you? You're far too proud."  
  
"Get out!" Legolas screamed in a tear-choked voice he barely recognized, then groaned as his head pounded. (/Yes, I want it. Please... /) "Get out," he repeated, his voice much quieter and with far less conviction.  
  
Ridley rolled the vial between his fingers, taunting him. The clear fluid splashed back and forth inside. Legolas couldn't tear his eyes off of it. He literally drooled. Ridley continued to wave it in front of him. Legolas felt like killing him right then and there, tearing it out of his cold, dead hand, and ripping his own shoulder to pieces to pour it in. He tried to overcome the feelings but his mind wouldn't stop begging; crying; screaming insanely for it. Ridley continued to wave it at him then began tossing it high into the air. Legolas' eyes followed the movements until it stopped.  
  
"If I ever get out of here, Ridley, I'm going to kill you. Count on it," Legolas said quietly through his chattering teeth, his voice strained with fury, and worse – want.  
  
"Bold words," Ridley said mildly. "I look forward to ramming them back down your throat." He paused as though considering that very thing. Then, "But not now. You'd do well to stay on topic, Legolas. You'll die here, unless..." he let his voice trail off.  
  
The elf's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Unless, what?'  
  
"Unless you decide to help me," he said casually.  
  
"Help you what? You're..." His words broke off into an animalistic moan as the pain grated and his stomach cramped hard again.  
  
"Help me take over. You help me, and I'll help you. You take out Aragorn and I'll give you this and set you free."  
  
Legolas sneered. "You're crazy if you think I'll help you. Neither heaven nor hell could make me hurt him."  
  
"Wanna bet on that? You're already in hell, Legolas. And you're already going crazy. Can't you see that? Can't you hear the whispers? Can't you feel the changes? Don't lie to me," he said, tossing the vial high into the air again.  
  
Yes, he could see that. Yes, he knew. And yes, he had lied to him, and would continue to do so as long as he could.  
  
Ridley tisk-tisked again. "You're not looking so good, you know. Not good at all. You sure you don't want this?" he asked, holding the vial up once more.  
  
"Uhh... I... I-I..." Legolas stammered, his eyes still glued solid to that stupid vial. "I...won't do it," he whispered, then rallied his strength and cried, "Get out!"  
  
Ridley shrugged. "How about I wait for awhile and ask you when you're more inclined to listen? Till then, I'll just leave this right here." He rose to his feet, placed the vial on the floor just out of Legolas' reach, and shut the door behind him.  
  
Legolas slumped against the wall and then groaned when his stomach heaved. He leaned and threw up again, then shaking like a leaf he hung his head and fought to catch his breath.  
  
He could hear murmurs and distorted voices. Couldn't tell if they were real or not anymore. Couldn't tell if anything was real or not anymore.  
  
Laughter.  
  
Crying.  
  
Screams.  
  
Whispers.  
  
Ridley was right. He was going crazy ... and he was more afraid of that than anything else.  
  
Then the memory let go and he was back in the mine again.  
  
/No, Greenleaf,/ Legolas said quietly from his black prison. /Not going. Gone. You're gone. We're gone./  
  
Aragorn face swam before him. The vision – /is this a vision?/ he wondered – held out it's hand; the skin on it hung in threads from the bones. Aragorn's face mouthed, Legolas, I'm here, and then stared wide-eyed in bewilderment as he scrambled backwards.  
  
Swirling...  
  
Greying...  
  
Then blackness...  
  
Tbc...


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten  
  
I Give You Gods And Monsters  
  
Part 1  
  
Greenleaf awoke...for the last time.  
  
He was on his side on a cold stone floor, weak as a newborn kitten, a blanket covering him to his chin. Low orange light cast the mine's walls in a soothing warm blush. Thoughts of: /Lords, I'm still alive?/ changed to: /Lords, I'm still alive./ It wasn't a welcomed thought. He had begun praying for death long ago – he and Legolas both – but it was taking it's sweet damn time in coming.  
  
He could make out the faint but distinct scents of the mine's long previous owners. Bear, fox, and a more recent family of skunks, among the mustiness of mosses clinging to the walls and the acrid smell of illness. The faint, rhythmic sound of water dripping from somewhere deeper in the damp mine behind him grated on his nerves.  
  
Blip...glunk.  
  
Blip...glunk.  
  
Blip...glunk.  
  
The steady, rhythmic sound reminded him of a diseased heartbeat of some massive beast...or a flicking forked tongue slapping a blunt nose...it's owner in the shadows behind him...waiting...waiting for an opportunity to strike...it's black reptilian body coiling...thick drool pouring from it's widening jaws...foul breath passing over serrated teeth...gleaming yellow eyes watching...forked tongue honing in on his body heat...moving closer...closer...  
  
Blip...glunk.  
  
Blip...glunk.  
  
Blip...glunk.  
  
Greenleaf became more and more sure that he had been right about what it was; that he had, at least, solved this riddle.  
  
Blip...glunk.  
  
Blip...glunk.  
  
Blip...glunk.  
  
The idea that he was lying here on the floor of the mine in the middle of nowhere and listening to a monster who was moments away from tearing him to pieces...that was crazy, but was it any crazier than what he saw in front of him? Ghosts. Ghouls. Phantoms. He could just make out the ghastly forms standing motionless just inside the mouth of the mine. The full moon's rays washed them in an eerie, unearthly glow, making them appear as though more apparition than of this world. Hushed familiar whispers reverberated softly off the cold stone walls around him, their words as if echoed from long dead tongues of past ages. To his fevered mind the sounds only confirmed his worst fears – that the gruesome visions were real and not fantasy.  
  
Am I dead? Greenleaf wondered. Am I in the midst of ghosts and phantoms?  
  
Panic slowly touched its icy hand to his throat and tightened it's grip, hitching his breath. He remained as motionless as he could and tried to make as little noise as possible.  
  
I'm not letting those walking nightmares near me, he thought.  
  
"What's wrong with him, Orome?" he heard Aragorn ask, his voice low and fret with worry.  
  
Orome? The Huntsman of the Valar? It can't be. I am among the dead.  
  
Greenleaf's stomach suddenly cramped so hard that he thought for sure someone had hacked him though with a huge clever. The monster from behind? From unseen phantoms? The tortures of the void? He tried to suppress a moan but it escaped him. At the sound, the forms at the mine's entrance turned. One was Aragorn. One was Alflocksom – the captain of Aragorn's guards. One was a boy.  
  
What is a boy doing here? he wondered, but he didn't have time to puzzle this out. His stomach heaved hard. He tried to swallow to no avail.  
  
"He's going to be sick again," Aragorn called.  
  
At once Greenleaf heard their footfalls padding towards him on the stone floor. He closed his eyes tight as they neared so he wouldn't have to see them.  
  
Aragorn skidded to a stop behind him and lifted him slightly off the floor. He wiped the sick sweat from the elf's forehead with a corner of the blanket.  
  
"It's alright, Legolas. Let it go," he soothed.  
  
Greenleaf tried to hold it back, but...  
  
He gasped and shook all over.  
  
"Alflocksom, help me move him to another spot," Aragorn said. "Careful with him, now."  
  
Greenleaf felt arms gently lift him into the air. He had a strange feeling of flying without wings. Disconnected – that was the word. Totally disconnected. He was here – where ever here is – but not really a part of it, like being in a dream and trying to run but everything is in slow motion and he couldn't make any progress. Reality and fantasy collided to make everything questionable. Life. Death. Feeling. Movement. Pain. Sight. Voices – voices in his head and voices around him, all jumbled and disjointed and slurred...  
  
Too much. It was all too much.  
  
He wanted it all to end. Now.  
  
"Alright, up you go, Legolas," said Alflocksom quietly as he hoisted him up. The elf's weight was light in his arms. Too light. "My liege, we're running out of clean spots."  
  
"Let's bring him closer to the fire. Legolas, you'll be alright. You're with us now." Aragorn's voice was almost in his ear as he and the captain lowered him back to the ground.  
  
Someone knelt beside him. He could hear water splashing. Then a cold, wet cloth patted his forehead. It was the first real sense of relief he had felt in what seemed like forever. He began licking his lips subconsciously, wanting to taste the cool water so desperately that he almost cried, but he knew his stomach wouldn't hold it. As if the bearer of the cloth knew his thoughts, the wet cloth was gently pressed to the elf's parched lips, allowing a few refreshing drops to spill onto his tongue. He held them greedily in his mouth and then swallowed. The bearer rewet the cloth and again pressed it to his lips. Unable to resist it's powerful allure, he sucked lightly on it, drawing the precious water out of it. The bearer once again rewet the cloth, and again he pulled the water from it.  
  
"That's enough for now, Legolas," said a strange, soft voice. The boy? "Your stomach will be lucky to hold even that much."  
  
A gentle hand gently smoothed his sweat-matted hair back from his face. The owner of the hand heaved a heavy sigh and rocked back on his heels, then quietly said, "I know what it is, Aragorn, though it has no name. The liquid caused the separation between the light part of the soul and the darkness. The darkness gained access to the light's strength because of the liquid, but now it's failing. The light can't recover it's strength, even with the supply of liquid cut off, and so continues to weaken. What you see now is occurring because of the separation, not because of the liquid. The balance is broken. Without balance, the body can't survive."  
  
"So what can we do, Orome?" Aragorn asked worriedly, all but begging. "I've already tried athelas but it had no effect."  
  
Silence. Then, "No, it wouldn't. That's the problem. Nothing will." Orome – the boy – patted Greenleaf's forehead with the cloth as he trembled. "Aragorn, the two halves of his soul are dying. There's nothing that can be done but make him as comfortable as possible...and wait."  
  
"Wait for what?"  
  
"For the end," the boy said softly. He paused. "Stay with him. When it comes – and it will be soon – it will be sudden. Call me when it happens. Until then, I have to go and prepare."  
  
"Prepare?" Alflocksom asked.  
  
"For death."  
  
/No,/ Aragorn tried to say, but his voice failed him.  
  
/Oh Lords,/ Alflocksom thought to say, but held it back.  
  
/Thank the stars,/ the tiny part that was still Legolas, whispered.  
  
Part 2  
  
Gimli knew he was in serious trouble the moment he tried to walk into the palace. The first indication was when the guards instantly leapt upon him, clapped him in irons, dragged him to the prison, and shoved him inside a cramped cell. The second was when the prison warden informed him that the penalty for attempting to murder the king – considered high treason – is death. The third was what he was told when he'd tried to explain. He had been told in no uncertain terms that since the king was in his bedchambers and could not be disturbed he may as well save his breath. One through three shocked the bejeebers out of him, but the fourth one...that one was different. That one sealed it. That one came next.  
  
"But I'm telling you that Aragorn is – "  
  
"You can't lie your way out of this one, dwarf," one guard growled. "The king has already made his ruling. In three days time you're to be brought before the people of Gondor and publicly executed."  
  
"WHAT?" Gimli's mouth hung open. Past exhaustion and teetering on the brink of collapse, it's understandable that he was a bit slow on the pickup. "He wouldn't..."  
  
"He did. King Elessar ordered it himself. Disappointed that the king lived, are you?" The guard scowled and looked him up and down as though he would like nothing better than to run him though himself. "You missed, dwarf, but I'll wager the executioner won't." The guard swiped his finger across his neck before slamming the door behind him.  
  
Gimli's hand unconsciously went to his throat.  
  
Part 3  
  
Life is funny. Hilarious actually. One day you can be enjoying life, and the next? Poof! Everything changes. Greenleaf had been in control. Now he was shaking, sweating, throwing up, and waiting to die. Funny. Knee- slapping-roll-on-the-ground-laughing type of funny.  
  
Voices giggled, screamed, laughed, and whispered in his ears. Conspiring, maniacal, cold, frightened, bellowing in rage. He couldn't separate fantasy from reality anymore. His mind shrieked to get loose, go back, and tear that mine to rubble to find the vial.  
  
You know where it is.  
  
/If it's still there, which isn't likely. If there's a vial still in the mine, it's seven levels deep... /  
  
We're dying! You have to help me! I can't do this alone. If we work together -   
  
/No. It's too late, Greenleaf. You lose./  
  
No, Legolas – we both lose. But this is what you wanted, isn't it?  
  
/Yes./  
  
Suddenly the muscles in his back went into an ugly spasm. His spine wrenched backwards so hard he could actually hear the bones popping under the immense pressure. His neck strained backward; jaw clenching against it. He hissed and moaned in agony while hot tears streaked down his face.  
  
I can't do this anymore!  
  
/I can't do this anymore!/  
  
This was the first time they both agreed on anything.  
  
Things slowed for a while and it wasn't too Lords-awful...until the shaking and the cramps started up again. He slowed his breathing and tried not to think about it. Sometimes that helped.  
  
But not this time.  
  
He retched once – a miserable dry sound – but nothing came up. His stomach began to settle...at least on a trial basis. Unfortunately, the shaking grew worse.  
  
"Easy, Legolas. Steady," said Aragorn, his voice soothing and calm. He knew Greenleaf still had control, but he wasn't interested in comforting Greenleaf – only comforting Legolas. He had a feeling that the Legolas side was still there...somewhere, and could hear him. Aragorn wondered if Legolas hated him for not followed through with his promise. Then he wondered if Legolas knew his hand had been stopped not from cowardice or some vain grasp at hope, but instead from knowledge and love. Somehow Orome had known the promise he had made to Legolas the night before – or had assumed as much, anyway – and instantly upon arrival had counselled him against keeping it. He had explained that Legolas' passing had to be natural for his spirit to be free, and then went on to explain that if he were to mid-wife Legolas into the next realm the elf would never pass to the Undying Lands or anywhere else – his fragmented spirit would go straight to oblivion. Promise or not, there could be no ease into the afterlife. Legolas would have to travel this path to it's end. And now here Aragorn was, rewetting the cloth and patting Legolas' forehead, and as he did, he did the hardest thing he had ever done in his entire life – he waited. And as he waited, he did the only thing left to him – he prayed for death to be as quick and painless as possible. But it wasn't quick and it wasn't painless.  
  
Greenleaf gasped and moaned uncontrollably like an idiot. He hated it but he couldn't help it. Another spasm hit then slowly released, but was replaced with smaller, meaner ones, racing all over. His stomach lurched violently again. Horrible cramps – like he'd swallowed splintered glass – rippled through him. Grunting with pain, his knees drew up on instinct.  
  
"Sire, he's going to – "  
  
He felt strong but gentle hands lifted him over someone's lap. His head hung limp as he dry heaved – nothing left in his stomach to expel. He shook like the floor was made of ice.  
  
Aragorn mopped Legolas' face; his sad eyes lifting to the captain. "Alflocksom, I think it's close to the time."  
  
"I hope so, sire, for his sake. Lords take him quickly," he said, squatting to sit on his heels and leaning forward, his forearms on his thighs. He rubbed the back of his neck as he looked the ashen elf over. "He's suffering the tortures of the damned."  
  
With Alflocksom's help, Aragorn drew Legolas up and back against his chest then carefully positioned the back of the elf's head against his shoulder. He gently brushed Legolas' sweat-wet hair away from his face, took his right hand in his own, and wrapped his left arm lightly around his chest, as much to steady the elf as to give him and himself some comfort. Legolas' breath was ragged, raspy, hitching. Irregular soft puffs passed through his slightly open mouth. He seemed to be fighting for every breath now; his lips tinged blue on a face far too pale, even for an elf. Aragorn didn't honestly know whether to pray he'd keep breathing or pray he'd stop.  
  
Alflocksom, still squatting over the balls of his feet, watched for a while. Then he shook his head slowly, rose, and moved back. This whole thing was making him sick...and angry. It physically hurt his heart to watch this.  
  
/But if it hurts me, what is it doing to the king?/ a small part of his mind wondered.  
  
/Likely shredding him to pieces,/ another distant part of his mind answered.  
  
He turned his back to them in an attempt to tune it all out for awhile. It wasn't easy. The only sound in the mine was the elf's soft panting, and each time there was a pause between pants he subconsciously held his own breath until it resumed. Aragorn was right, he reflected – it wouldn't be much longer now. At least he hoped not.  
  
/Please, Greenleaf, let me go,/ Legolas begged from his black prison.  
  
Take it, Greenleaf finally relented, too weak to argue anymore having taken the worst of it. We're both dead anyway. Say your goodbyes, Legolas.  
  
Aragorn felt the change. He felt a difference within the circle of his left arm. He could feel the growing desperation. The elf was losing his strength. His spirit was changing.  
  
Legolas dry-swallowed; back in control once again. He panted softly, beyond pain now, beyond sight now. He had only one thought, and he voiced it.  
  
"Aragorn, where are you?" he breathed. His fluttering eyes, searching without sight, appeared to be wholly lucid. He was not that heartless creature who had gone by the name of Greenleaf. Greenleaf's voice faded into nothingness and was replaced by a much beloved one. "My...friend?"  
  
And with those words Aragon knew that Legolas was back. The poisoned, half- mad bitterness was gone from the sound. The king swallowed the tight lump in his throat.  
  
"I'm here, Legolas," he breathed in his ear. "I'm here. I've got you." A painful hole he'd felt opening in his heart grew wider. It had been easier to pull back a bit and detach from Greenleaf's misery, but he couldn't detach from Legolas'.  
  
A slight shake of the head. "I can't – " the elf broke off for a moment before continuing. "Can you... hold my hand? I'm... floating... away."  
  
Aragorn already was. He tightened the grip on Legolas' icy hand and wrapped his other arm even tighter over his chest.  
  
"I'm cold. So cold. Is it... me?"  
  
Alflocksom draped a blanket over both of them and then moved back to allow them some privacy.  
  
"No, it's cold in here," Aragorn lied. Actually it was too warm. Sweat trickled down his temples. His chest felt wet – his shirt was plastered to him.  
  
"Ridley." Legolas' sightless eyes widened. "Aragorn, Ridley is... going to st...steal the crown," he panted softly. "He looks just... like you. He did this so he... could step... into your shoes..."  
  
/Ridley,/ Aragorn thought. /Ridley. I'll take him apart with my bare hands for this. What kind of an animal could do something like this?/  
  
"Shhh," Aragorn hushed. "Forget him. He'll never get the crown. I swear it."  
  
"I wouldn't let... Greenleaf do it. I... couldn't let him... hurt... you."  
  
"I know. I know." Silent tears streaked Aragorn's face, dripping off his jaw onto the elf's tunic. He brushed them away with the back of his hand but more came just as quickly. Legolas' eyelids fluttered, growing heavy. Breath slowed. Lightened. Aragorn's eyes didn't shift to Alflocksom, and his lips didn't move as he murmured: "Get Orome. Hurry."  
  
The captain fled from the mine at a dead-run.  
  
"Did I... matter?" Legolas asked, the words as a breath on the air.  
  
Aragorn swallowed hard. "Oh yes. Yes, you mattered, Legolas. You made a difference. You made a world of difference."  
  
Legolas gave a ghost of a smile. "My... friend..." he said. His voice was scarcely more than a movement of his lips.  
  
Aragorn's chin trembled. "My brother," he croaked.  
  
Then it happened, and there was no fanfare or fireworks or trumpets blaring or agonized screams or the heavens opening up with crashing thunder and wild lightening...or anything. What did happen was a tiny shudder so light that if Aragorn hadn't been holding him at the time he wouldn't have known it had happened. Then, only three sounds: two tiny, quick, jerky breaths that sounded like sniffs, then a single soft sigh of air. Legolas' eyes rolled back. Lids slid closed.  
  
And it was over.  
  
And Aragorn froze. He could feel his mind locking up, folding in on itself and forming into a lump of utter immobility. He felt his heart stop. Felt everything totally stop. His own breath, his heart, his thoughts...everything. Total shutdown, just like that. Later he would think that the only time he'd felt remotely like this was when he was twenty-one and he, Elladan, and Elrohir had gone hunting in the winter. It was at least three weeks before the ice on the river would have been safe to cross, but it seemed to hold the weight of his brothers' just fine, and for that moment they'd all forgotten that he wasn't an elf. The three of them had walked out onto the ice. He was practicing his tracking skills, hence the first one to the middle of the lake. The ice simply cracked under his feet, he was under before he knew it, and he still thought he might have come close to dying then – just how close was not something he really wanted to know. The air that day might have felt like late- summer, but the water felt like mid-winter. His nervous system had momentarily shut-down. His breath stopped solid in his lungs, heart stopped in mid-beat, and when he broke the surface it was as if his mind couldn't remember how to restart his body. He remembered the looks on his twin brothers faces, he remembered Elladan and Elrohir standing on the ice, Elladan looking like he'd just been gut-punched, Elrohir looking pretty much the same and then yelling 'Estel!' as he started to move, and all he had been able to think was /I'm dying, I'm right here in the middle of the lake with my brothers watching me like two slack-jawed statues and Elrond is going to kill me and Legolas is coming for a visit in a week but I'll never see him because I'm going to be dead./ Then it had broken, he sucked in a great, gasping breath, and had called to them with the unthinking of utter panic: 'Help me!' It had occurred to him later that he could have ended up killing one if not both of them, just as he had almost killed himself.  
  
That was how he felt right now: he was in a total frozen shut-down. All thinking, all sanity, all reason, breathing, heartbeat, everything... stopped. He was sitting on the floor of the cave in the middle of this great big shut-down, Legolas still in his arms, looking over the elf's shoulder and staring down at his still chest, and he barely knew he was there. A tiny part of his mind was aware that Alflocksom was running toward him, someone with him, he was speaking to him, and it was like that day on the hunt, exactly like it, his breath was stuck solid and his heart refused to budge – everything completely, totally, and unequivocally down.  
  
Then it just broke, as it had the other time, and he sucked in a great whooshing gasp of breath. His heart slammed painfully, caught, and then slammed again. But this time his mind took much longer to unthaw.  
  
"Legolas?" Aragorn breathed.  
  
No answer.  
  
"Legolas, please..."  
  
No answer.  
  
"Oh no... Oh Lords... Oh please, please, please..."  
  
Aragorn didn't need to look into the elf's face to know, but he had to. He shifted slightly. Legolas' head lolled with the movement and his cheek came to rest against the middle of Aragorn's chest. The elf's face was colourless – literally colourless except for his bluish lips – but there was something touching in that beautiful, pallid pallor. Something serene. He looked peaceful, as though sleeping, as though in that dreamless eternal sleep he had finally found what he had been searching for. Aragorn felt a huge, gaping hole – a horrible, hollow emptiness – form in the middle of him; a good chunk of his own soul gone with him.  
  
"Oh Legolas," he croaked. He squeezed his eyes shut and hugged him closer. Tears poured unrestrained down his face. He wrapped his arms tighter around the elf, and tighter still, and began to rock side to side. He had no idea in this world how long he stayed like that, the elf's golden hair swaying with the slow rocking movement, while memory after memory flashed in the his head. He and Legolas laughing as the elf splashed water at him. Legolas hanging upside down from a tree limb and scaring him half to death. The elf patiently critiquing his archery skills. Both skidding around corners and sliding down banisters, racing like two lunatics through the halls of each other's homes in Rivendell and Mirkwood. The quiet times spent talking about life, loves, and everything. The jokes, games, and pranks. The battles they'd fought side by side in. A flash of Legolas shouting in victory... snarling in anger... singing... laughing... smiling warmly...  
  
A hand touched his shoulder. He was barely aware of it.  
  
"Peace, Aragorn," a deep, gentle voice said. "Be at peace."  
  
Aragorn's gaze lifted slowly, slowly. His heart was beating so hard that he saw a bright light like the flicker of the sun through leaves dance in front of his eyes, a light that seemed to pulse with each painful thud of his stricken heart.  
  
He saw a powerfully built man (at least Aragorn thought it was a man) hunker down beside them, his forearms resting on his thighs and his hands dangling between his knees. He was looking at Legolas with the same deep compassion that the boy had had when he'd used the wet cloth to quench his thirst. Aragorn was aware that someone had lowered down beside them only when he saw long, dark hair swirl about a face and shoulders as though stirred by a light breeze, though there was no breeze here to stir it. This is Orome's true form, he knew, but he didn't care. And he didn't care that Alflocksom was standing off to the side, looking grave. And he didn't care that they were now both staring at him.  
  
But he did care when Orome gently cupped Legolas' ashen face in his hands and tilted his head upward. He cared about that very much. His eyes couldn't stop looking at Legolas' face or the man's hands.  
  
Don't touch him, Aragorn tried to say, but his voice failed him.  
  
Don't hurt him. He's been hurt enough. Orome touched a knuckle to his brow then to his lips, then leaned and kissed Legolas' brow. He smiled at the elf, though it was a very sad smile, and murmured: "You have found your peace at last, beloved son of Mirkwood."  
  
Alflocksom bowed his head in respect for the elf and for grief over his king's grief. It hurt his heart terribly to see Aragorn in such agony.  
  
There was a long, long silence, then Orome touched Aragorn's shoulder again and quietly said, "King of Gondor, look at me."  
  
Aragorn didn't.  
  
"Aragorn son of Arathorn, Heir of Isildur, Lord of the Dunedain, King of Gondor, grieving friend – look at me," he said quietly in the High Speech.  
  
Aragorn looked at him. Looked him square in the eyes. He saw sadness and compassion...and an inner light – a light that sparkled from the dark pupils of his eyes and held his gaze as firmly as iron manacles to wrists – that transported him away from his grief as it whispered secrets to his mind that only those rare few who are worthy of hearing would ever hear. Aragorn had the strange sensation of floating upward into the heavens and suddenly seeing everything. Battles in ages long past. Great quests. The beyond. The future. The reason for man's existence. The reason for his own existence. He wanted to go on staring into those eyes forever, absorbing the information, but Orome lowered his eyes back to the elf, and in so doing, severed the link. The crushing veil of grief returned. And so did guilt at having briefly set aside that grief. Fresh tears stung his eyes.  
  
Orome, perhaps reading his mind, put the comforting hand back on Aragorn's shoulder. "I was drawn here by his darkness, but I assure you that I did not come here to hunt him or hurt him, only to save you from yourself, and in turn, save Gondor.  
  
"There is no victory without sacrifice. Still, it pains me and others that you have had to suffer more than your share." He paused. "I know what I am willing to sacrifice for Gondor. What are you willing to sacrifice?"  
  
Aragorn didn't answer. His entire consciousness had fused into one thought: /Not this. Notthisnotthisnotthisnotthisnotthis... /  
  
Orome nodded as though in understanding. "As a Steward of Gondor it is only fair that I right this wrong, or try to, anyway. Besides," he added with a twinkle in his eye, "I have a vested interest in Gondor and a soft spot for elves, and this elven hunter in particular. He reminds me of myself. And like you, he has not only suffered more than his share, but proven his worth many times over."  
  
"But he's..." /Gone,/ Aragorn naturally tried to say as his gaze lifted to Orome, he just couldn't manage to get the word out. "He's..." /Dead and it's too late,/ he thought to say, but those words wouldn't come out either. He couldn't bring himself to say them; couldn't bring himself to think them. His mind simply shut off before they had a chance to form on his lips.  
  
"Yes, he is," Orome said, as though reading his thoughts. "I was the only one of the Valar who crossed to the Undying Lands unwillingly. I suspect he did the same. That makes he and I lost souls – living dead. Let him go now. Let me take him."  
  
"Where?" Aragorn asked, his grip tightening protectively.  
  
Orome smiled a little. "Not where you think."  
  
Aragorn made no move to release him. He was looking at Orome with utter blankness.  
  
"I do not expect you to understand, but you will very soon. I just want you to remember that the rest will be up to you. Before this is over, no matter what happens, I want to hear you swear to me that you'll go back and take up your crown with the same strength and compassion that you've shown here these many days."  
  
"I can't promise..." Aragorn began, his voice sounded distant and strange to his own ears.  
  
"Try," Orome urged. "That is the best anyone can do." His gaze cut back to the elf. "He is past your help now. Let me take him. It's time."  
  
Aragon nodded numbly.  
  
Orome gathered the lifeless elf in his massive arms, lifted him from Aragorn's grasp and cradled him against his chest with no more effort than a father lifts and cradles a tiny, sleeping child.  
  
"Outside, now. Quickly."  
  
In a daze, Aragorn swiped an arm across his wet face then climbed to his feet and staggered after them. Orome walked out of the mine and into the middle of the clearing, sank down to one knee, lowered Legolas gently to the ground and crossed the elf's arms over his chest.  
  
Alflocksom stopped halfway between the mine and Orome. Aragorn almost ran into him. The captain was staring out across the clearing at the tree line. Except it wasn't. The tree line was gone. There was nothing but a black, seething void.  
  
"Lords almighty," Alflocksom murmured, deep struck with awe. "Protect us," finished Seigen among the silent, staring guards. Both were the perfect sentiments for what Aragorn himself wanted to say, but...couldn't.  
  
There were birds everywhere.  
  
Sparrows, to be exact. It looked as though the far side of the clearing had been totally swallowed by...nothingness. A black, empty, undulating oblivion of sparrows. Every branch, log, rock, inch of ground, piece of snow...everything was covered in them.  
  
Aragorn was staggered by the mass. No, mass wasn't quite the word he was searching for. Sea. Yes, that's better. Definitely a sea. A black sea of sparrows. And he was seeing them without really seeing them. Sight without belief. His mind simply wouldn't accept this. Refused, actually. Utterly refused. The closest his mind would go was to believe it had been gripped by another nightmare vision because what he saw defied any sane description.  
  
/How many sparrows does it take to obliterate a forest?/ he wondered. /Millions? Billions? More?/ He couldn't even begin to imagine the count. It literally hurt his mind to think about it.  
  
"Aragorn, stay back," Orome said without taking his eyes from the elf's face. "Your part is over. The rest is mine." He leaned and stroked Legolas' still-warm cheek with a knuckle. His voice was soft, hushed. "You are whole now, prince of Mirkwood. The two parts of your soul are separate no longer. The time is right."  
  
Orome climbed to his feet and lifted his gaze to the sparrows.  
  
"They are the harbingers of the dead, Aragorn. Do your recognize them?"  
  
"No." But subconsciously he did, and it sent a chill through him.  
  
"Then give them a good look and remember them. No one can control them – at least not for long. They are here because of me, and now, hopefully, for me. Watch and learn, King of Gondor. You have been chosen to serve as witness to this. The dead have honoured you before. Now they honour you again. It is a special gift. Do you understand? Do you remember?"  
  
Understand? No. Remember? Yes, he remembered. /He's speaking of The Paths of the Dead,/ Aragorn thought, and his mind rolled back to memories of the haunted road under the mountains and the tryst at Erech, and the great ride from there to Pelargir in the company of the Shadow Host, and all that came afterward. He nodded and was going to answer but Orome's attention was fixed on the sparrows, needing to hear none. He kept silent.  
  
"Harbingers!" Orome cried. "You know who I am. I am Orome. But I am also known as Araw, Tauron, Bema, Aldaron, Vorondil, and more. I am the Lord of Forests. The Hunter. I am the Huntsman of the Valar. I am Immortal with no beginning or ending." He paused. "This is an elf. A prince of Mirkwood. An Immortal as well, but one who is destined to sail. I offer you a trade."  
  
/Harbingers,/ some distant part of Aragorn's hazy mind repeated obediently. /Guides. They guide lost souls to the land of the living. I have to remember them. I have to remember this – all of this./  
  
Aragorn, his mind slowed to a crawl by his grief, and understandably so, suddenly understood  
  
(I offer you a trade)  
  
what was happening here. Orome was going to offer himself up. The sparrows had served as Orome's escort back to the land of the living, and now he was going to try to control them.  
  
What had Orome said? No one can control them, at least not for long. They are here because of me, and now, hopefully, for me.  
  
The last piece of the puzzle fell into place, a perfect fit. The heavy fog in his mind lifted and suddenly he was wide awake and his mind was able to think clearly. And he knew. There was only one reason Orome had come back at this specific time of all times. He knew this would happen and had come back to try to change it. Eyes that show the past and future could also see it. Legolas' future, his future, and Gondor's future...  
  
...and time. He had mentioned time.  
  
The time is right.  
  
That was a double-edged sword. The time had to be right. Exact. Not only did he have a limited amount of time to try to control the sparrows – No one can control them, at least not for long – but he also had to wait until Legolas' light and darkness reunited. The right time for both. He had to find the exact moment between when he could still control the Harbingers and Legolas' spirit reuniting – no longer bound by his body. If Aragorn had fulfilled Legolas' wish to kill him, the controlling side, be it Legolas or Greenleaf, would have died first, and the two sides of his soul would have remained separate forever. By dying naturally, both sides died at the same time, drawing them back together.  
  
I know what I am willing to sacrifice for Gondor, Orome had said.  
  
Legolas' only chance to live was for Orome to sacrifice himself. He was offering the Harbingers a bigger prise – himself. There is a price for trying to control the agents of the afterlife – a high price. The guides – the sparrows – were there to do a job, and they would not go back empty- handed.  
  
/But what if the Harbingers refused the offer?/ Aragorn thought. /What then?/  
  
A rustle of feathers rippled through the black sea – a rustle like a shiver of excitement. The sound was like a distant rumble of thunder. They were tense, alert, barely containing their eagerness. Yes, eager was the word. They were eager, wanting to get on with their job.  
  
The calm before the storm, Aragorn knew, and then wondered how he knew that.  
  
"Bring the elf back," Orome called.  
  
The restless shifting of the birds suddenly stopped. It seemed like the whole world was silent, black, and waiting – like it was hold it's breath and hanging on his every word.  
  
No, Aragorn knew. They weren't just hanging on his every word. They were waiting for the right words, the words they needed to hear.  
  
And when they did, all hell would break loose.  
  
It suddenly struck Aragorn that Orome seemed to be waiting as well. He was waiting to hear the right words...from him.  
  
"Orome," he called. "I swear on my honour that I will take back the crown, no matter the outcome here." Then he shouted as much for the Huntsman as for himself: "For Gondor!"  
  
The Hunter smiled a little, and seemed to grow in strength...and, in some indescribable way, in contentment and resolve as well. It was as if his very essence had somehow changed.  
  
"For Gondor!" Orome repeated just as loudly, then after a slight pause in which he seemed to mentally count off the time, he commanded in a tremendous voice: "Guide Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood, back to the land of the living! I offer myself willingly in his place! What say you?"  
  
The forest suddenly exploded with an ear-splitting trill of millions upon millions of sparrows. Then they took wing with a deafening roar, lifting en mass like a floating carpet, and shot for the sky like a monstrous swarm of black bees. The sky darkened with them. Blackened. More birds came, and still more, forming into what resembled a single pitch-black cloud directly overhead – a cloud which blocked out most of the sky.  
  
Then slowly, slowly, the cloud began to rotate.  
  
Aragorn stood were he was, utterly transfixed by what he saw. Then he saw what they were doing.  
  
"Alflocksom!" Aragorn screamed over the still rising roar. "Get everyone into the mine!"  
  
Alflocksom waved to some, resorted to shoving others, and herded them safely inside the mine's entrance. Then he raced back to Aragorn and yanked him by the arm.  
  
"You too, sire!" he screamed, trying to raise his voice over the ungodly howl, "Come on! Come on!" But try as he might to scream above it, his voice sounded like a whisper below it, even to his own ears.  
  
"No!" Aragorn bellowed, struggling free, his wide eyes not leaving the sight for even a moment. "I have to see this! I have to stay!" Aragorn couldn't leave even if he wanted to. His eyes were glued solid to this magical...thing – this beast with a billion parts and a billion voices. "Someone has to witness it!"  
  
"Then I'm staying with you!" Alflocksom cried.  
  
A tendril began to snake down from the bottom of the whirlpool cloud; the sparrows following each other in a pattern that reminded Aragorn of a long, looping, spiral staircase. The staircase tightened ("Oh my Lords," Aragorn breathed, staggering backward against the hurricane wind), swirling into the beginnings of a very recognizable shape – a funnel cloud. A living black tornado. How they were able to move together without striking each other none could say, but they moved as if controlled by a single mind. More and more sparrows, late-comers by the look, swarmed in from every direction to join the swirling monstrosity. The tornado grew, and as the monster spun faster and faster the sound rose to a shrieking howl. The sight was both incredible and terrifying.  
  
Then it began to lengthen out...and reach down...  
  
Aragorn was caught somewhere between a reckless desire to rush over and drag Legolas and Orome out of the way and a desperate need to rush backward out of the way. Fascination overrode both, though, and he took three steps forward and would have taken more, utterly mesmerized by the living twister, but Alflocksom caught his arm.  
  
"No!" the captain yelled to be heard above the howling gale. "He said to stay back!" His grip tightened. He'd already lost his king once and wasn't about to lose him again.  
  
The bottom of the ever swelling, screaming twister hovered just above both immortals, whipping their hair and clothes as though both were caught in a hurricane. Orome looked up into the eye of the storm above him. He staggered against the wild wind then righted himself, spread his arms wide, and closed his eyes. The twister suddenly dropped on top of them, swallowing both whole in utter blackness.  
  
Time stood still in Aragorn's mind. Seconds, minutes, hours, now and forever, all seemed to blend together as he watched the supernatural at work. His eyes strained for a glimpse but the blackness was total – a complete nothingness – as though there had been a rip in the fabric of time and space...of reality...of everything.  
  
Slowly, slowly, the middle of the tornado began to thread out, loosening like yarn from a ball. The swell lessened, the long, thin thread rewinding and funnelling back up into the cloud. The thread bent with the bulk of the tornado still on the ground and Orome and Legolas still lost from view. Suddenly the tornado withdrew back up into the cloud. One second the cloud it was there – spinning and churning like an insane, furious whirlpool – and the next it seemed to explode as birds tore off in every direction. Within moments the sky was blue once more...and it was over.  
  
Aragorn stood panting as though he had just run the race of his life. His face remained upturned, his eyes fixed on a far off fluffy white cloud, afraid to look over and see the answer.  
  
"Aragorn?"  
  
He froze. Swallowed. Slowly lowered his gaze.  
  
Orome was gone, as if he'd never been...and Legolas was rising to his feet.  
  
Aragorn's knees almost buckled. He swayed for a moment, dangerously close to shut-down again, but this time with relief. He suddenly burst into tears. He had no idea that was coming, it just happened.  
  
Alflocksom did as well.  
  
So did Legolas.  
  
Tbc... 


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven  
  
But For The Face Of Innocence  
  
Part 1  
  
It's always disorienting to wake up from a nightmare, even in a good place. This, however, was not a good place. And Gimli was not waking up from a nightmare but wide awake and smack-dab in the middle of one.  
  
It was the gloomiest, most depressing place Gimli had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked and spotted stone window ledge was a double set of iron rings for what he could only guess was a place to chain the more unruly. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stub of a torch burning low in it's standard. The doors to the cells were flaking with rust, and one of them was dangling off its hinges. But there was no need for working hinges on any cell door save his own because he was alone here.  
  
/A nice hole in the mountains of the Mordor would have been better,/ he thought, as he hoisted himself up by his fingertips to peek out of his cell window. He would even rather face Helm's Deep again than face this, or this day.  
  
He lowered down and sat on the edge of the cot they had afforded him, though it served little use other than a place to sit – he couldn't sleep if he wanted to. And he did want to, badly. But with the last of his time slipping away like water through his fingers, his mind wouldn't settle enough to drift off. Besides, soon his sleep would be an eternal one. That knowledge was enough to keep anyone awake.  
  
He could see the sky through the cell window lightening to pink. The sunlight spilled through and made a line on the floor...then the line lengthened into a box...then into a trunk...and finally into a coffin, and all the while he could hear the crowd outside growing.  
  
Today was a day of rest for most people, and in Gondor it was no different, except for the odd pickpockets, guards, prison officials, and of course the executioner – whose job had all but been abolished, until today. Ever since Aragorn had taken the crown, driven out the last of Sauron's sickness, and restored law and order to the land, the people of Gondor seemed to have heaved a collective sigh and began to take their first fledgling steps toward the daunting task of rebuilding. But to rebuild, first they needed an accessible workforce. And though in the beginning there had been huge expectations of mass executions, Aragorn, in his wisdom, felt there were far better ways of dealing with the criminal element than by simply executing them – where's the punishment in a quick death? So he had created work details (and work they did, for there was, and still is, plenty of back-breaking work to go around) with the criminals becoming the logical choice for a handy, readymade workforce in an all but devastated land that had seen enough war, suffering, and death, to last ten- thousand lifetimes. But this morning was different, of course. Plans for this day had gone on for the last three. Talk was particularly lively all over Gondor. It was heralded as the event of the season. Anyone who was anyone would be there. There wasn't a person within shouting distance that didn't know what today was. Today was the day that the executioner would once again take up his axe and don his black hood, because today was the day that Gimli – the dwarf who had tried to murder their beloved king in a cave – would be sent to a different type of cave – a tomb.  
  
Gimli heard the crowd start up almost directly beside him through the iron barred window. A few minutes later, the prison warden and several guards entered the long hallway that led from the main offices in the front of the prison to his cell in the back.  
  
The warden spoke in a soft, wondering voice. "It's time, Gimli. On your feet. I hope you've made your peace to whatever Lords you pray to." He was leaning against the bars, peering into the cell; barely contained impatience written on his face like one of Gandalf's fireworks ready to explode. It was not that he relished the spectacle of a public execution, but he did take both pleasure and pride in his small part in the justice system. As he saw it, the dwarf was as guilty as sin and about to get what he'd deserved. Still, he would not add to that misery by mistreatment or insult, no matter what he felt.  
  
Gimli nodded but didn't move, and found himself thinking of Legolas and Aragorn. "Will the king be there?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Gimli looked at the warden. "Is the executioner good?"  
  
"Yes," the warden said. His voice had a gentle lilt to it, in keeping with the situation. "He's the best. You will not suffer, Gimli."  
  
Gimli nodded and stared at his hands folded in his lap. "Warden?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I know you don't believe me, but that's not Aragorn. I don't know who that is, but the king of Gondor is midway in the valley with Legolas." He pushed on not waiting for a response; he'd been over this topic countless times already and it was like beating his head against a brick wall. "Where is Arwen?"  
  
The warden looked closely at Gimli. "She has been delayed."  
  
"And Faramir?"  
  
"With her. Protection, at the king's request."  
  
"Watch over them both when they return. They'll know he's an impostor at first sight, and then both their lives will be forfeit."  
  
The warden leaned even further forward as though pondering this for a moment, then he nodded.  
  
The guards unlocked the cell door.  
  
Part 2  
  
The six of them rode hard, each urging their mounts faster and faster in a flat-out race for Minas Tirith. The horses, nearly shoulder to shoulder, thundered across the plains – their manes rippling in the wind, ears pinned to their heads, nostrils flared wide for air, tails streaming out behind them.  
  
Aragorn heard it faintly even through the sound of the wind rushing in his ears - the crowd shouting and jeering in his mind – and his heart sank. He waited, bracing himself for the visual of the premonition to hit him, but this time nothing came.  
  
He urged his winded mount – the third and last of three horses he had taken – faster, his own heart pounding as though keeping time with each galloping hoof beat. Eighteen horses, he noted briefly and worriedly. Six of us. Three horses a-piece. Eighteen now reduced to six. Between the six of them, the number of horses had steadily dwindled as each winded horse, pushed almost beyond it's limit, was traded off for a fresher mount and left loose for the trailing guards to gather on their way back. Legolas and Alflocksom on his right and Aic, Seigen, and Vedt on his left, had done as he had done – showing the true meaning of all-speed by changing horses on the fly rather than stopping to do it. Now all six riders were on their last of three horses each. But would it be enough? Aragorn wondered. The way things stood now, these last were tiring quickly, and with many leagues yet before them, things weren't looking good.  
  
Stride by stride Legolas' horse began falling behind, exhaustion playing it's part to numb the stallion's already overworked muscles. The grey's lungs worked like bellows, sucking for precious air, while white foam lathered his muscular chest, neck...everywhere, known only to the elf and not seen by the others because of his colouring. The elf leaned forward, almost laying on the horse's neck, and spoke directly into it's ear. Beneath him, the stallion's strides began to lengthen out again, slowly, slowly, until finally he pulled up even with Aragorn's stronger mount again as though understanding every word the elf had whispered. The stride seemed to encourage on the others that were also beginning to falter, until soon they were all back to flying shoulder to shoulder once more.  
  
The elf and king exchanged a glance. Legolas gave a worried shake of his head to let Aragorn know that he believed the grey was almost spent and would not make it much further before dropping. He found himself wishing he could drop the grey's tack, but knew any attempt to unsaddle at this pace would be nothing short of suicide. The horse was shaky as it was. A shift of weight now, no matter how slight, could bring him down and in turn bring them all down like a rockslide. The best he could do was to stay leaned over the grey's neck to cut the wind resistance and hope it would be enough.  
  
Aragorn, also leaning, closed his eyes and sent a prayer with all his might: /Please, Lords, please don't let us be too late! Let these last mounts fly as if kings of the wind!/  
  
He sensed no response and felt only the slightest increase in his horse's already breakneck pace. And now the sounds of the crowd were gone. The unwanted premonitions, overwhelmingly strong at first, were now flimsy at best and already beginning to fade as though they'd never existed. But this was one time he truly wanted to see.  
  
Part 3  
  
Waiting, Ridley leaned back in his chair under the canopy impatiently tapping his ring on it's ornate wooden arm. He glanced down and looked the ring over. Silver accented in gold and set with a fiery green gemstone. It had been Aragorn's, but now...  
  
With the Lords blessing him (he had once thought they were cursing him) with a face and body nearly identical to Aragorn's, and with Arwen's Evenstar Pendant against his chest suspended by it's finely crafted elven chain, the Elven brooch pinned to his cloak, and this ring, by all accounts and all eyes, he was Aragorn. It had been a genuine stroke of luck that the king had left the trinkets in his bedchambers, and out in plain sight to boot.  
  
/But had all of this really been a stroke of luck, or was there some higher design at work?/ he wondered.  
  
Still, whatever the reason, here he was at long, long last. This was as it should be. After all, he had been born with the face of the king. Why shouldn't he have everything that went with it? And the best part is that the Lords seemed to be with him on this one. Twill just happening to work with an alchemist / herb master; Legolas falling into his lap; the liquid working it's magic better than he dared hope for; Gimli rushing back to tell Aragorn; Aragorn faking his own death; Alflocksom blaming Gimli and sending word back to have the dwarf arrested on sight for treason if he dared show his own face in Gondor again; the people in their relief not questioning his supposed return from the dead; Queen Arwen away; the trinkets left in the bedchambers in plain sight; the people of Gondor so good at safeguarding their king that they couldn't tell the real from the fake ... damn, he couldn't have planned this better if he'd tried. But even so, he couldn't shake that anoying feeling that all of this had been far too easy. After all, it's not everyday one can slip into the king's shoes and no one be the wiser.  
  
/Were the Lords just being kind,/ Ridley wondered, /or is this some kind of a huge joke?/  
  
/A test?/ A part of his mind asked. /But if it is a test, who's test is it? Mine? Someone else's? A test of what?/ Then he dismissed the questions. As long as things were gong his way, who really cared? /Well, Aragorn might care, he thought, but to hell with him./  
  
/And speaking of hell, Aragorn should be long in hell by now,/ he thought. /And Greenleaf with him./  
  
The only two who could possibly ruin this for him now were the dwarf and the queen. The dwarf had been easy enough and soon would be of little concern; the captain's orders had seen to that. All Ridley had to do was simulate a few quite believable sighs of regret before pressing the royal seal to wax on Gimli's order of execution. But the queen would take a bit more planning. If he couldn't convince her, he'd kill her and blame it on usurpers.  
  
Usurpers. He hid a smirk into one cupped hand. The only usurper here was him. That was one joke he didn't care to share.  
  
What started out as a bit of fun two years ago had grown into a full-blown obsession. He remembered traveling through the borders of Gondor while hunting a certain target – one of the two-legged variety: unfortunately a boy (he'd had more than a few misgivings about that one, but money is money, and besides, he never did find the boy anyway), and had come across a small group of Gondor's finest. They had taken one look at him and almost passed out, believing that the king had come to evaluate them. He'd played along and spent the night amusing himself by giving stupid orders and watching them scramble to carry them out. Afterward, he had tried his face out on the nearest town. Did it work? You bet it did. And that was the understatement of the year. He hadn't had to pay for a thing – be it the finest room in the finest inn, food, ale, or woman. Not that he'd ever had a problem finding female company or had ever paid, but woman suddenly seemed to crawl out of the woodwork. It's one thing to turn heads with a decent face, but being mistaken for the king had been too good to be true. It seemed to be quite a coup for a woman to bed the king. He liked this new found fame and all that went with it. Grew accustomed to it. Then one day it occurred to him that he could take it all – permanently. Why not? He already had the face and body. Why not the rest? It had been luck-and- the-Lords that had brought him this far; maybe the fates had intended he have it all, all along. He was sick of working for the rich anyway – always close to the gold but never within touching distance. Now, though...  
  
Funny thing was, if he hadn't been tracking that boy when and where he had been, he wouldn't have come across those guards out of nowhere, and it never would have occurred to him to try this. This had all started with that boy. And why that huge, dark haired man wanted a fourteen-year-old boy dead was beyond him. Of course, in his line of work, the less questions, the better. He hadn't asked.  
  
A curse to have the king's face, he had thought at first. Now it was a curse turned golden opportunity. He was no fool. He had grabbed ahold of that opportunity with both hands.  
  
Sheer luck.  
  
Or was it?  
  
Yes or no, it didn't matter now, he supposed.  
  
As long as the people didn't know. Looks aside, the differences in their personalities were astronomical; the major difference being: where Aragorn had misgivings about the death penalty, he did not. Gimli might be the first, but he wouldn't be the last. Blood would flow in the streets of Gondor before he was done. Payback is going to be sweet and deadly, and there were so many to pay back.  
  
But first things first. The dwarf had to go.  
  
The prison warden took his usual place behind the king's chair and waited. With Gimli's warning still nudging his mind, his eyes couldn't help traveling over what little he could see of what he perceived was the side of Aragorn's face. /But is this really Aragorn?/ he wondered.  
  
"Let's get on with it," the king muttered impatiently.  
  
"Yes, sire," he said, rising to his feet and readying to motion the watchful guards to bring the dwarf out. He hesitated. Had a thought. Leaned. "Sire, perhaps we should wait for Faramir. I believe he would like to see this as well."  
  
The king shook his head. "If he wanted to see this he would already be here, wouldn't he?" He glanced up at him. "Just get on with it."  
  
The warden seemed to be stuck in that lean for a moment, stunned utterly speechless and utterly motionless. That was not the answer he'd expected. Not at all.  
  
/Already be here?/ the warden thought. /Faramir had sent word that they were going to be delayed by at least two more weeks. Aragorn knew that. Hell, everyone knew that./  
  
"But sire, Faramir is – " he tried to explain helpfully.  
  
"Just – get – on – with – it, " the king growled hotly, turning and glaring at the warden. "What part of 'Get On With It' don't you understand?"  
  
The warden's eyes lifted to the expectant crowd...the executioner who was gliding a careful thumb along the razor-sharp edge of the axe...the guards who's eyes were fastened on him...and thought: /The dwarf was telling the truth. Good Lords ...what do I do now? They'll think I've lost my mind./  
  
He couldn't think. He forced himself to straighten and at the same time, concentrate. And remember how to breathe. Breathing was important. It wouldn't be a good idea to pass out right now.  
  
/I have to stop this. I can't execute an innocent man...or dwarf. That's murder. I'm a lawman, not an assassin./  
  
A quick plan formed. It wasn't very good but it was the only one he could think of on such short notice. "One moment sire," he said quietly. "The dwarf wasn't finished praying to his Gods yet." He walked past him. "I'll go and check myself. It won't be but a moment."  
  
"Then hurry it up."  
  
He strode back to the prison, almost tripping over his feet in his haste, and motioned to the guards to follow him as he trotted past. Once inside he ordered: "Close that damned door and bar it. No one in or out until I say, understood?" Then without waiting for an answer he hurried back to Gimli's cell. His mind was racing a million miles a second, all roads leading back to the same initial thought: Get the dwarf out of here – fast.  
  
"Gimli, on your feet and follow me. Hurry," he urged, talking so quickly and quietly that he sounded somewhat irrational. He glanced to the four guards stationed in the room. "The rest of you, stay on the dwarf. All sides. Do not ask questions. I have my reasons and I'll explain them later. Just remember: I'm your boss and your orders come from me. Now move." He motioned to the back door.  
  
The plan might have worked, but unfortunately he'd been right the first time – it wasn't very good. And as soon as they opened the back door there was no denying that. A good twenty-odd swords were pointing at them.  
  
"Well, well, well." Ridley stepped through the crowd of guards, stopped in front of them, and shook his head as though terribly disappointed. "I had a feeling you might get a little turned around, warden. Good job we came to help you out." He gave a quick motion of his head and levelled a hard look. "The front door is that way." He paused. His eyes cut to Gimli. "He has a date with the executioner, and since all of you made the crowd wait, I'm going to give them an extra special bonus. The lot of you are going to join him. We're going to kill ten treasonous birds with one stone."  
  
Gimli had been quiet until now, staring in shock at this ... man. The resemblance was uncanny. He honestly couldn't get over it. If he didn't know better, he would have bet everything he had and borrow more that this was Aragorn – body, voice and all – standing before him. He looked every ounce the friend Gimli had known, right down to the scar on his upper lip. His upper body was clad in the traditional dark shirt and black tunic with the sign of the White Tree on his chest, had a ceremonial knife scabbard looped over one shoulder, and Arwen's pendant about his neck. His lower body was clad in black, tight-fitting leather breeches which were tucked into high black boots. Dark hair, smouldering grey eyes, same height, weight, build...everything.  
  
Except this was not Aragorn. And now it was all starting to make sense.  
  
A little smile touched Gimli's lips. Ridley saw it. A flash of recognition passed between them, but the meaning only went one way. Ridley had seen Gimli leave the elf at the mouth of the mine, but Gimli knew he'd never seen this man in his life. It was the eyes. There was something strange about them. They had the smug look of a hawk that caught the mouse. Gimli could not look away from Ridley for long; his eyes were drawn inescapably back. And he could understand why: this man, this Aragorn, was not only a perfect duplicate – though that in itself was enough to force the dwarf's eyes to light on him again and again – but also he was the only one here that seemed to be finding extreme humour in all of this. Though his face remained utterly passive, his eyes sparkled with inward laughter.  
  
The warden's mouth hung open. "You can't do that."  
  
Ridley smiled cheerfully. "Sure I can. I can do anything I want. I'm the king."  
  
"The void you are! You're no more Aragorn than I bloody-well am!" Gimli shouted venomously, and Ridley hit him across the face. His hand made a sound like a breaking branch.  
  
Gimli's head snapped back; his eyes widened with shock...then fury. He stared at the fake king, then slowly raised his hand to touch the reddening handprint on his cheek. "You fraud!" he whispered. His hands dropped to the hilt of a young guard's sword beside him. The young guard, shaking his head vigorously, tried to put his own hands over it. Gimli pushed them away and tore the sword from it's sheath.  
  
"Gimli!" the warden cried. "No!"  
  
Ridley stepped back and yanked an bolt fitted crossbow from one of his guard's hands. He levelled it, his finger tight on the trigger. His aim was not at the dwarf, however, but dead-centre of the warden's chest.  
  
"Drop it or I'll kill him," Ridley said; his face stern.  
  
For a moment Gimli thought that the fraud was going to do just that, and the warden's life would have ended right here, behind this jailhouse, beneath a cloudless sky with the sun glimmering above them. Then the fraud turned the crossbow toward the young guard; his face as hard as stone. Whoever he was, Gimli knew he had no qualms about killing the lot of them right there and then. That didn't bother the dwarf any – he knew he was going to die anyway – but taking others with him because of his actions? That bothered him. If the fraud wanted them killed, he would have to order it, and in front of the people of Gondor first. Gimli didn't want to meet the Lords in the afterlife and have to explain why he had brought so much company with him. He figured he had enough blood on his hands as it was and would have enough explaining to do already. Reluctantly, the sword fell from his hand.  
  
"Take them," Ridley said through a sneer. "The dwarf dies first."  
  
Part 4  
  
Gimli, his hands bound behind his back, climbed the stairs that led to the platform then stopped short at first sight of the dark-stained wooden block. Some strange expression – disheartened disappointment – was dawning on the dwarf's face. The small expectation which had glimmered in his eyes as he surveyed the crowd winked out, leaving him with a look both grey and bleak. It was the expression of one who has just given up all hope. Aragorn wasn't here. Legolas wasn't here. There would be no reprieve. No 'snatched from the jaws of death' stories to tell others years from now. He was going to die. And that meant Aragorn and Legolas were already dead or they would have been here to stop this. That thought hurt the dwarf more than the thought of his own imminent passing.  
  
A rough hand pushed him forward, almost toppling him into the block. He stared down at it and at the straw basket that sat before it. He was well aware of what the basket was for. He was well aware of what the scooped part on the back of the block was for as well. He was also well aware of what the executioner behind him was doing by the reaction of the crowd. They had begun cheering wildly; whipped into a near-frenzy. He was well aware of everything; he just couldn't believe any of this was happening.  
  
His eyes again lifted to the crowd. Angry faces shouted curses at him. Fists raised. One toothless old woman in the front cackled hoarsely, highly amused by this spectacle. More than one women stared at him, oblivious to the fact that their children had left their sides and were currently squeezing through the crowd so they could get a better view. More than one man stood glaring at him, their arms folded across their chests as though highly pleased. The crowd pressed in tighter to the platform, each jockeying for a better position.  
  
Well placed knuckles between his shoulder blades shoved him forward again, driving him directly in front of the block. The toothless old woman beamed. He had the odd feeling that she was a witch and was readying to be the first to race up the stairs as soon as it was over. /Likely after a lock of my hair or – what?/ he wondered. He shivered with revulsion, not wanting to think about what else she might want to relieve him of afterward. She stroked her chin and then gave another cackle of laughter. /My beard,/ he thought. /The crazy old witch wants my beard!/ He briefly wondered why, but decided to let it go. He didn't want to think about the possibilities.  
  
His eyes came to rest on the canopy-covered platform just beyond the throng of heads and came to settle on the impostor-king, his leg casually thrown over the arm of a chair big enough to be a throne. Gimli's blood boiled, but at the moment he was hardly in any position to act on his feelings.  
  
Prompted by one of the councillors, an old man made his way to the front corner of the platform that he himself – in his role as one of the city councillors – had designed. He cleared his throat loudly, unrolled a scroll, and in a shaky voice that jiggled up and down read aloud the charges and the verdict. He offered up his own prayer (which was too insincere to repeat), then beckoned for the executioner to perform his task.  
  
Gimli barely heard him. His eyes were still fastened on the grinning face just past the sea of heads; the face that was Aragorn's and yet was not; the face of a man who had done something so horrific to Legolas' mind that it had destroyed him.  
  
/If I could just get my hands free for one second,/ he thought, /and wrap them around an axe handle, I'd remove the grin off that face right at the neck./  
  
Gimli was so focused on the fake king and so lost in thought that he didn't notice that the old man stopped reading until a hand suddenly pressed down on his shoulder, driving him to his knees and at the same time shoving him forward into the block. His chin struck the edge, his throat fitting neatly into the scoop. The executioner's shadow stretched long beside him.  
  
The shadow of the axe raised...  
  
The crowd hushed with breathless anticipation.  
  
Innocent, wide-eyed, cherub-cheeked children stared at him. One little boy, no older than three, smiled up at him from the front of the crowd, thinking it a game. He had the face of an seraph – the face of innocence. Gimli wished with all his heart that the child would turn away, but the boy continued to smile up at him, his huge eyes full of wonder and curiosity. The dwarf couldn't help but think that the moment the axe fell the boy would lose his innocence forever.  
  
The old woman smiled gleefully.  
  
The boy continued to smile.  
  
Gimli squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the final blow.  
  
"HOLD!"  
  
Gimli flinched...then chanced a peek through one eye.  
  
All eyes had turned toward the back...to two Aragorns facing each other from opposite sides of the crowd – the fake already on his feet and standing on the platform at the back, and Aragorn (The real Aragorn, Gimli knew), Aic and Vedt with him, standing on the seat of a wagon to the far right – with the majority of the crowd between them.  
  
Gimli felt a knife blade pass between his palms and a moment later the bindings on his wrists fell away. A shadow stretched beside him. A long, lean shadow. A very familiar shadow. Gimli was already beaming from ear to ear before he climbed to his feet. In one heartbeat, he turned, grabbed the elf around the waist and hoisted him up. Then embarrassed, he let go and cleared his throat loudly.  
  
"Could you have been any later, elf?" he growled indignantly, his cheeks still flushed rosy with embarrassment.  
  
Legolas grinned. "If we were, you wouldn't have known."  
  
"'Tis good to see you," he said. Then cupping a hand to half-hide his mouth he whispered, "They almost had my head."  
  
"Another moment and they would have." Legolas playfully swatted Gimli's shoulder and then jerked a thumb at the executioner. "He pulled up in mid- swing." He turned to the executioner, his eyes narrowing as he regarded him. "Of course, if he hadn't, he would have died before his axe fell."  
  
Gimli's chest puffed out indignantly. "A fat lot of good that would have done me. He still might have struck me as he fell."  
  
Legolas wasn't listening to him anymore. He wasn't even looking at Gimli nor at the executioner. He was now fixed on Aragorn and Ridley, his attention drawn by the low exchange of words and threats, their words scarcely above the startled mutterings of the confused crowd. Aragorn was keeping his voice down and barely moving his lips, knowing full well that the people's eyes would be trained on his face, and the fitting belief that the sneer that threatened to pull at his lips would give the people give more reason to question who he was. After all, Ridley was the one who had the clothes and ring, not him. Legolas' eyes shifted from one to the other. From this distance Ridley and Aragorn were as identical as a man and his mirror image. It was disturbing to say the least; the only real difference separating the two was their clothes. Still, he knew full well the real from the fake, kingly-clothes or ranger's. The question was: would the people know?  
  
As if in answer to his silent question, one spectator called: "But which is which?"  
  
Aragorn spotted the laundress in the crowd and pointed at his clothes. "Madame," he called, "do you recognize these?"  
  
Her mouth dropped open, her hand covering it. "Oh my lords, the king..." she muttered through her fingers. Then she pointed at Aragorn and yelled at the top of her high voice: "The king dons those lords-awful ranger's clothes again!" She fanned her face with a hand, growing pale as though about to faint. The rest of the crowd heaved a collective gasp.  
  
"And what of this ring and this pendant?" Ridley called out, not to be undone so easily.  
  
Aragorn pulled a string from around his neck and held it up. Suspended from it was the silver key. "This fits the trunk in my bedchambers," he called. "It's the only one in Gondor that does. The ring and pendant are mine, Ridley. I left them on my nightstand. You found them. That makes you nothing more than a common thief, not a king."  
  
When Aragorn began to speak, half the people were gazing at him with suspicion; perhaps a quarter looked a little troubled; an the rest had downcast and anxious faces. But the poised confidence radiating from Aragorn changed all that; and as they moved closer to him, there were less than five who looked uncertain – the others might have been going to a celebration.  
  
Aragorn sprang from the wagon's seat and was on the move toward the platform, the two guards flanking him. Ridley leapt off the platform and was on the move toward Aragorn. The distance between them was lessening very fast. Second after second; not minute after minute. The crowd quickly drew back from both, and Aragorn and Ridley were racing to meet in the middle as though they meant to do battle among them. There was total silence as every person rushed backward out of the way and every grounds guard stood waiting for an order – an order that didn't come.  
  
Legolas was off the platform and shoving his way straight up through the middle of the crowd in a matter of seconds. He had a look on his face that none had seen before – something beyond fury ... something that would have made even Greenleaf take a step or two backward. Most he pushed past saw it out of the corners of their eyes and drew even further back. Ridley didn't see it. Gimli couldn't see it, not from behind the elf. Aragorn? No. Alflocksom? Definitely. He was shoving his way through from the far left toward the middle with Seigen behind him, and for a moment he was glad the elf wasn't aiming that look at him. But there was no madness in Legolas' eyes. Only clarity. He knew what he was doing and what he wanted to do. He wanted to murder Ridley, and he didn't care about witnesses.  
  
Ridley made the middle first, and that's when Legolas saw it – something... some weight in his sleeve...  
  
"Aragorn! Knife!" Legolas shouted, just breaking through the crowd.  
  
But Aragorn's attention was momentarily diverted by a small, petrified-to- paralysis child cowering directly in front of him, and Ridley wasted no time in taking full advantage of it. By the time Aragorn's mind had commanded his body to react, Ridley had wrapped an arm around the child's waist and swept him up against his chest. The knife hidden up his sleeve was out, in his right hand, and pressed against the boy's left jugular before the elf could take another step. Ridley shot the elf a look of pure, sick hate over boy's shoulder. Legolas, Aragorn, Gimli, Alflocksom, Aic, Seigen, and Vedt stopped stone-dead. The intention was clear. The threat, obvious. One move and Ridley wouldn't hesitate to slit the terrified, cherub-cheeked child's throat from ear to ear.  
  
"I can take him from here," whispered Seigen from behind Alflocksom, lifting his knee and slipping a knife from the top of his boot. "If you drop down, I'll have a clear shot."  
  
"No," Alflocksom said quietly without turning. "Put it away." Though he had no doubt that Seigen could hit the mark with deadly accuracy, he also had no doubt that when he did, Ridley would jerk, causing the knife to slit the boy's throat. Thwarted, he glanced over at Legolas and read the same frustration on the elf's face as his own likely held; both drawing the same conclusion at the same time and both hating it.  
  
Every face turned to Aragorn. His expression was dreadfully hard. His eyes darted from the sobbing child to Ridley. The knife tightened as if in answer to the question of his intent. Another few moments and the child would certainly lose his life. The crowd was in danger. The little boy was in greater danger. These considerations and many others, including the knowledge of the extreme intensity of the eyes directed towards him, a recollection of the viciousness of what Ridley had done to Legolas without regard what-so-ever for the elf's life, the status of the boy squirming in panic, seconds away from death, flew through his racing mind before his stopped breath began to flow again.  
  
There was no decision to be made.  
  
Aragorn raised a placatory hand. He slowly, slowly, pulled his sword free from its sheath and lowered the weapon inch by inch down to his heels to place it on the ground before him. With both hands raised and fingers splayed to show he was now weaponless, he straightened slowly, slowly.  
  
"Everyone else, back – off!" Ridley said harshly, his eyes fixed on Aragorn's. "King Elessar, to me."  
  
Aragorn, both hands still raised, did as he was told.  
  
Ridley dropped the child and at the same moment spun Aragorn around by the shoulder, grabbed a fistful of hair, and wrenched his head back to expose his throat. The knife pressed tight to Aragorn's jugular until he barely dared to breath. At the same time he was pulled backwards. They retreated that way through the crowd opposite from where Legolas and Gimli stood; Gimli now right beside the elf, holding the executioner's axe. Legolas again considered loosing his knives (his bow and quiver having been taken by Gimli and not yet retrieved) but he saw how set the knife was and quickly quashed the thought. Any reflexive jerk of Ridley's hand, any twitch, would cause the artery to be slit wide open, and Aragorn would bleed to death before anyone could reach him. Though he was loath to stand down (Lords he wished he was behind Ridley with a knife to his neck. He'd all but decapitate him) he knew there was nothing left to do but wait and hope for another opportunity.  
  
Aragorn could feel Ridley's breath puffing against his ear in hot little pants. Worse, he could hear the voice that sounded so much like his own hiss: "You should have stayed dead, your majesty. Now I'll have to do this the hard way."  
  
Legolas watched as Ridley half-dragged Aragorn backwards toward the palace. He waited tensely; his fingers flexing nervously – the tips of each finger singly tapping the tips of his thumbs (an old habit from archery training); his eyes so fixed and focused he could see his friend's pupils dilate from the bright sunlight to the dimmer torchlight as they burst backwards through the palace's heavy double doors. The very instant Ridley and Aragorn were out of sight, the elf and the dwarf peeled off to the right – the elf leading the way – pushing through the stunned, tight-packed crowd.  
  
"GET OUT!" Ridley shrieked at sight of the startled entry guards as he dragged Aragorn backwards through the doors. He slammed Aragorn sideways into the stone archway that lead to the throne room, carefully keeping him between himself and the guards, and screamed to those inside: "GET OUT, NOW! EVERYONE OUT!"  
  
Their heads snapped up. Looked from one to the other. Hesitated – all caught totally unaware.  
  
"Go. Leave now." Aragorn said at once, realizing how bleak his options were as things now stood. A cornered animal is apt to do something rash, and at the moment he didn't need Ridley more nervous than he already was. He raised his voice and went on, "And tell Legolas to stay out of this. Unfortunately, this is no game."  
  
The guards left, although grudgingly, and only because both had ordered the same thing.  
  
And then they were alone.  
  
Tbc... 


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve  
  
The Unfortunate Game  
  
Part 1  
  
"Unfortunately, this is no game? Are you sure those were his exact words?" Legolas asked the stricken guard for the fourth time.  
  
"Positive, right Adry?" the guard said, glancing at his comrade.  
  
The other nodded vigorously.  
  
Alflocksom frowned. "Why? What does it mean?"  
  
Legolas' gaze cut back to the palace. "A hint from a childhood prank gone awry," he said quietly as though thinking out loud, but said nothing more. The rest was private. And painful. And many years ago when they had found a labyrinth of secret passageways hidden throughout Elrond's home in Rivendell. One led to the meeting chamber, though neither had known it was the meeting chamber nor who was meeting there until it was too late. Lines of light marked the hidden doorway's edges. Silently, holding their hands over their mouths to contain their nervous giggles, both pressed their faces against the crack but could make out no more than an oaken bookstand against the far wall and a leg of what both guessed was a table. They were about to move on when they glimpsed a swirl of deep blue fabric and knew that Elrond had just walked through their narrow field of vision. Both grinned and readied to pounce from the doorway in hopes of giving him the fright of his life...when suddenly Thranduil's voice shook the room. A terrible argument ensued between their two fathers, one which would become old, familiar, and much quieter as the years past. But this one was the first either of them had overheard. Elrond had staunchly and loudly defended Aragorn and Legolas' friendship. Thranduil demanded he put an end to it now, reminding Elrond of two insurmountable differences between elves and humans: one being human weaknesses and fragility compared to elves; the second being the differences in their life spans and how badly Legolas would be hurt by Aragorn's passing if their friendship were allowed to continue. Then Thranduil said the unthinkable: "Just because the human is your pet..." Elrond had been stunned into utter silence, and in that moment Aragorn had taken his silence to mean concurrence, and upset, he ran. Furious, Legolas had hung back to confront them. But before his hand had touched the panel to open the door, he heard Elrond explode. The elf lord not only staunchly defended Aragorn at the top of his voice but claimed full guardianship of him as well, and then proceeded to tear a verbal strip off Thranduil the likes of which Legolas had never heard before. It had taken many hours of searching before he had found Aragorn and told him of the ending, but the damage was done. It had taken many years for Aragorn to let it go. At least he thought Aragorn had let it go...until now. Obviously he hadn't. But that's not what he was hinting at now. Later, when they could bring themselves to talk about it (which was years later), they had referred to it as 'The Unfortunate Game.'  
  
"Legolas?" Alflocksom asked.  
  
Legolas didn't look at him when he asked: "Do you know if there are any hidden passageways?"  
  
"Leagues of them." Alflocksom grinned as though he already knew where this was going. "And I know all of them. I used to play in them when I was a boy."  
  
"Is there one that leads to the meeting chamber?"  
  
Part 2  
  
Aragorn was first whirled and then shoved forward though the throne room. The two of them walked down the middle, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor. For Aragorn, it was déjà vu all over again. The echoing hallway in Rivendell had been replaced by the echoing throne room, but somehow everything else was the same as the dream. Oh, there was one other relevant difference: now it was the meeting chamber's doors he was being forced toward, not the door in the mine tunnel. Aragorn had a feeling Ridley would pick that particular room. It was heavily fortified and was the only room in the palace with only one obvious way in or out – much like the room in the mine.  
  
Ridley walked Aragorn through the doorway between two small cubicles which served as greeting booths, once upon a time. Beyond them, the massive meeting chamber loomed like a gallows. In a sense it was a gallows. His gallows. Aragorn had a hunch that this would be the last time he would ever see this side of the great doors again. After all, Ridley wasn't dragging him in here for his health. He meant to kill him in there and likely switch clothes and trinkets, making it appear as though once again the king had miraculously cheated death.  
  
"Now Aragorn," Ridley said in his ear, "I'm going to let go of your neck, but I'll be holding your arm, and if you move so much as one inch more than I want you to, I'll bury this knife in your side. Do we understand each other?"  
  
Aragorn nodded, and suddenly the terrible pressure was gone from his throat. Then Ridley seized his right bicep with fingers like steel daggers and yanked him forward. Aragorn gasped. His forehead instantly broke out in a cold sweat and he almost howled aloud with pain; what few stitches hadn't already popped open, tore open. His mind dropped into a foggy world where the only thing real was where Ridley's fingers dug into the deep slash with a white-hot, sickening burn.  
  
/Don't react,/ he told himself. /Just do exactly what he says and wait for an opportunity. Keep thinking two steps ahead. Keep your mind clear...and for the Lords sake keep your mouth shut./  
  
Still, what else did he have to think about? The screaming pain shot straight up to his temple and crowded most other thoughts out.  
  
Aragorn's daze was broken by relief just inside the meeting chamber's doors when Ridley let go of his bicep, grabbed him by his collar, and yanked him to a stop so fiercely that he grunted a strangled squawk. Ridley brought his elbow down in the centre of Aragorn's back, almost hard enough to send him sprawling into the stone floor. Then he grabbed a fist full of his tunic, yanked him up, and wheeled him around to face the open doors again.  
  
"Close them and bar them," he ordered.  
  
Aragorn did, using his numb right arm as little as possible, though it was no easy task. Still, he did such a decent enough job of concealing that fact that Ridley didn't seem to take any notice. As soon as the task was done Ridley stuck one leg out and at the same time yanked Aragorn's collar with just enough force to send him crashing sideways over it. His head struck the stone floor and for a moment all the lights went out. Ridley, not one for showing mercy to anyone or anything, brought him around quickly by seizing his bicep again. The king smothered a gasp, half-crawling and half-stumbling forward, unable to stop Ridley from dragging him. He was beyond protest now, almost beyond consciousness. All he knew for sure was that his arm was on fire and he was bleeding again. Badly.  
  
Ridley had dragged him to the far corner of the room and with a mighty yank had half-thrown him against the stone wall. Now he gathered a handful of Aragorn's shirt into one fist and pulled him up. Still disoriented, Aragorn made a fumbling, feeble attempt to lock his hands over Ridley's and pull it away from his shirt. Angered, Ridley smashed him across the face.  
  
"Down. Stay," Ridley ordered loudly, like he was commanding a dog, and a stupid one at that. Aragorn complied. He had to. His knees had turned to water. Ridley hunkered down in front of him. Feeling the stickiness on his hand, he raised it to look at it then frowning at his dark crimson fingers, his eyes cut back to Aragorn. He inclined his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. "You're bleeding?" he asked.  
  
No longer able to deny it, Aragorn winced and clapped his hand to his bicep to stem the flow. He was wrong about the observations of before. He was bleeding – definitely – but it was far worse than badly - it was streaming through his fingers. He felt weak and dizzy and shaky all at once, as though he had caught a vicious flu. He let his bicep go just long enough to swipe his forearm across his eyes, brushing away beaded sweat, and felt warm blood running down his arm, the gush soaking his shirtsleeve in moments.  
  
"Let me guess," Ridley said, his lips spreading into a smile, grey eyes sparkling. "Greenleaf's handiwork, right? My he did a nice job. Looks like he might have nicked an artery."  
  
/An artery?/ Aragorn thought, then thought he understood why and almost clapped his hand to his forehead for his own stupidity. /Damn, I didn't think to check the blade's tip! I was too preoccupied with stitching it and keeping Legolas back to even think about it. If the tip broke off and it hadn't nicked before, then the way Ridley had dragged me around... /  
  
/So that's why it's so painful./ He remembered his thoughts in the mine and thought: /Lords, I am bleeding to death!/ and surprised himself by suddenly snorting a chuckle.  
  
Ridley had set himself down on his heels. Now he raised his eyebrows. "Something funny?"  
  
"Very. Tell me – when are you going to kill me?"  
  
Ridley thought it over. "Soon," he said at last. "Any time now."  
  
Aragorn snorted a chuckle again. "What are you waiting for? Legolas?"  
  
Ridley grinned. "How'd you guess?" He didn't wait for an answer, just went on. "I was surprised to see him...alive. You too, as a matter of fact."  
  
"I'll just bet you were," Aragorn said in a low voice, and the next instant his head struck the wall behind him, snapped backwards by a heavy-handed blow across his temple. He shook his head groggily, looked around, and found himself face to face with Ridley. The man's lips – his lips – were pressed together in a hard line, his cheeks flagged with colour, and there was hate in his eyes.  
  
"Shut up!" Ridley hissed. He gathered a handful of Aragorn's tunic into one fist, pulled him up, and smashed him across the face again, this time succeeding in bloodying his lip. "I'm sick of looking at you and seeing my face. How about we change that?"  
  
It began raining blows, none of which Aragorn could dodge...and all thoughts were lost in a red sea of pain.  
  
Part 3  
  
"Go back and stay by the entrance in case he gets by us," Legolas had said. "Have the palace completely locked-down."  
  
Though Alflocksom didn't like it, not one bit, he did as he was asked. Of course, there were three others that hadn't cared for that order any better than he had, and after telling them, and having a heated exchange of words because of it (Oh that had gone over about as well as a bag of manure, he thought ruefully), he'd sent them outside to clear the grounds and place the palace in total lock-down while he tried to clear out the inside.  
  
Now stalking the halls, Alflocksom began muttering under his breath: "Gets by us. It'll be a cold day in the void before Ridley gets by those two."  
  
Alflocksom stopped and glanced out a window at the sun. It was still far from the horizon. And when he had totted up thirty tallied turns from the throne room to the starting of the labyrinth entrance, it was still far from the horizon, hanging in exactly the same place, shining with idiot radiance, while time marched on.  
  
Meanwhile, he was still finding frantic guards in his travels, most running about and looking for orders, and looking to him to give them. The only one he had given them twenty minutes ago: "Clear out," hadn't satisfied them. At the mark as Alflocksom was on his thirty-something turn around, one young guard – Caspian, or some-such-odd-name – met him with a long face and said, "Captain, what is the plan, sir?" He spoke a little hesitantly, since Alflocksom's jaw was set: and his eyes fixed beyond Alflocksom's face at the sealed meeting-chamber's doors.  
  
"I told you to get out," the captain growled. "Now do it!"  
  
Caspian, or some-such-odd-name, gazed at him for a moment and then said, "Yes sir." He hurried away, boots clicking on the marble floor, then disappeared out the doorway. Everyone else around him listened with concern, remaining motionless. They stayed that way, glancing at one another, until he growled louder. Then they too vanished.  
  
Now finally alone, Alflocksom stalked the Throne Room. His hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides as he continued to pace, ready to grab and throw the nearest thing not bolted down, because the young guard – the odd-named lad – had hit the nail square on the head. He had no plan. The great captain – veteran of many battles, captain of the guards of Gondor, the one everyone looked to for answers – had no answers. Panic and failure. He'd heard several remarks of that type, all driven by the same reason: he was utterly stumped. As for him, he had never felt more frustrated and useless in his entire life than he did at this moment.  
  
Hesitantly, the warden peeked in through the palace's doors. Spotting the captain, he rushed toward him with a long bundle tight under his arm.  
  
"Alflocksom," he whispered, his eyes flittering nervously around. "Is it too late? Where's the elf? I have his weapons that the dwarf brought in."  
  
Alflocksom pointed across the Throne Room to the closed doors of the meeting chamber. "They're already inside, I think."  
  
"Here," the warden said, passing him the bundle. "In case the elf has need of them." His voice was still little more than a whisper, and he kept looking past Alflocksom's shoulder toward the meeting chamber.  
  
"You best go," Alflocksom said.  
  
The warden nodded. He chanced a quick glance over his shoulder as he hurried away.  
  
As Alflocksom watched the warden depart, a voice came to him; not one spoken by mouth but more carried on the wind and whispered to his mind: What are you willing to sacrifice for Gondor?   
  
Alflocksom's eyes lowered to the bundle in his hands. "Give me a chance and I'll show you," he murmured. "Just one chance. That's all I ask."  
  
Tbc... 


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen  
  
This  
  
Part 1  
  
At first Legolas had been pleased when the muted voices inside the meeting room confirmed Aragorn's cryptic hint of his likely destination, but as he and Gimli drew closer to the sound – close enough to hear murmuring voices as well chuckles (which upon first hearing had not only lifted his brow but the dwarf's as well) – he began to feel anxious. For them to find the location was one thing, but for them, though it seemed at first to be a stroke of good fortune, to hear the voices so plainly instead of hushed (or as he'd expected – nonexistent) didn't feel right. If Ridley was making no attempt to lower his voice or keep Aragorn quiet, that meant one of two things: either Ridley was supremely confident that they wouldn't be found – which was highly unlikely, or he was counting on the fact that they would be found and was waiting for them – which was more likely.  
  
But would good fortune bring them this far only to have it end this way? After all these trials and tests, would the Lords simply abandon them now? And if they were destined to die here, then what was the point of testing them in the first place?  
  
Gimli looked at Legolas with eager eyes and pointed to the rectangle of light that was the outline of the hidden doorway. Legolas shook his head and patted his hand toward the floor, indicating they would stay put. They had to stay put: this was wrong. Somehow they had lost their only advantage – the element of surprise, and Legolas thought that he and Gimli could reasonably hope they could get it back if they could afford to wait long enough for Ridley to let his guard down.  
  
In the end, time ran out. The two could actually see Ridley kneeling through a sliver of space, though from this angle it was just a small portion of his back and the heel of one boot; Legolas easily made out a new sound that was the solid smack of thrown fists; and worse – soft grunts of pain. He closed his eyes and cursed silently, knowing that good fortune had indeed abandoned them.  
  
Gimli moved to stand by the hinge of the door so Legolas could position himself in front of the opening. The dwarf's hands tightened around the handle of the executioner's axe and he raised his eyebrows questioningly. Legolas tilted his head, still listening for sounds inside the meeting chamber, then he caught Gimli's eye and gave a quick nod at the sliver of light. Gimli returned to the task of keeping his eyes on what little he could see of Ridley. From where Legolas now stood, he could see nothing at all of the man. All he could do was listen and hope.  
  
Suddenly all sounds stopped. The elf's heart beat slow and hard in his chest. His eyes cut to the dwarf still peering through the sliver of space. Gimli's head snapped around to stare at him. The look on his face...  
  
Legolas drew the same knives from his belt that Ridley had sewn into his blanket and flipped them to hold them by the tips of their blades. Then with all-deadly-speed he kicked the hidden door in, shoulder-rolled out onto the floor of the meeting chamber, raised up to one knee, and hauled back to throw.  
  
"Legolas, NO!" he heard Gimli shout from the passageway, and a good job that the dwarf did for his aim would have had deadly consequences, that was not in question, but with Ridley somewhat blocked by Aragorn's lifeless body it would have been a tossup which man would have been struck. As it was, Legolas did heed the warning and froze like a statue.  
  
In that moment, thought was absent from his mind. Nothing breathed, nothing moved, nothing made the slightest sound. His eyes took in the scene before him – one his mind was now struggling against accepting but would later recall with clarity from being forever burned into his memory. Aragorn was slouched in the far corner; Ridley down on one knee behind him, one fist clenching a handful of Aragorn's shirt to hold him up and the other fist holding a knife – it's sharp tip pressed to Aragorn's side. Unfortunately, just as Legolas had guessed, Ridley had been waiting for them. But while Ridley had waited, he had been very busy. Aragorn's face – beaten bloody and already swelling – was barely recognizable, but oddly enough Ridley didn't seem to have a mark on his. That told the elf something: either Aragorn hadn't fought back, or worse, couldn't. Legolas had been totally unprepared for this particular blow, having thought every conceivable kind of possibility except this, and for some moments he could hardly accept the shock as he stared at both friend and foe.  
  
Ridley saw Legolas' expression of surprise and grinned. "I wouldn't if I were you." His voice suddenly rose as he ordered loudly: "Weapons on the ground!"  
  
Legolas didn't move. "And what if I don't? What if I choose to put them through your throat instead?"  
  
"Then he'll get to the void just enough ahead of me to hold the door," he said, his eyes glittering dangerously. "What? Do you think I'm kidding?"  
  
"No," Legolas replied in a calm voice. As a matter of fact, he was sure Ridley wasn't kidding. The man had trapped himself into a corner, so to speak. He was a dead man in Gondor, and when you're facing death, everything changes. Desperation can drive the smallest mouse to try to fight the largest hawk. Death, desperation, and fear are great motivators. He should know.  
  
"You got that right, elf," Ridley said mildly, and before Legolas could say more, Ridley suddenly buried the knife in Aragorn's side. Beaten near unconscious, the king didn't so much as twitch. "I never liked him anyway," Ridley continued mildly. "There's something about his face. You just can't trust a man with a face like that."  
  
Legolas' jaw dropped and he gasped hard as though he'd been the one stabbed. With both his mind and body stuck instantly numb, his arms were already lowering when Ridley repeated in that maddeningly mild voice of his: "Weapons on the ground, then slide them over here."  
  
Slowly, slowly, Legolas placed the knives on the stone floor and shoved them forward. They clattered along the stone floor and came to a stop a good five feet from his friend's legs.  
  
A grim smile tugged at the corners of Ridley's mouth as he pulled the bloody knife out and let Aragorn go. The king swooned for a moment and then toppled sideways. His head struck the stone floor with a sickening thud.  
  
"Now you, dwarf," Ridley called, his eyes not leaving Legolas' for even a moment.  
  
But a moment was all Gimli needed. He heaved the execution's axe. It would have removed Ridley's head from his shoulders had he not possessed the same cat-like reflexes Aragorn had. As it was, it struck him a glancing blow across his forehead and hammered him backward. A shrill cry of pain and rage rose from Ridley's mouth as he struck the wall behind him. The knife bounced from his hand and skidded forward towards Aragorn.  
  
Ridley pushed off the wall and dove for the knife.  
  
Legolas dove for his.  
  
Gimli bellowed a blood-chilling cry as he raced forward.  
  
Part 2  
  
Aragorn had no clear memory of the time that followed, and that was probably merciful. He was too busy falling in and out of consciousness to grasp what was happening. Legolas and Gimli, however, did not have that luxury.  
  
Ridley got to his knife first, his being far less distance away than Legolas' knives were. He twisted as he skidded and came to a stop on his knees beside Aragorn once more. In less than a blink of an eye he had one hand buried deep in Aragorn's hair, the other maintaining a steady pressure on the knife at Aragorn's throat, not quite enough to break the skin.  
  
Both the elf and the dwarf froze again.  
  
"Seems we're right back to where we started." Ridley's lips spread into a smile, then his face dropped. "Now BACK – UP!"  
  
They did.  
  
"Ridley," Legolas said, "you've lived too long."  
  
Ridley smiled. "And I'll wager you'd love to remedy that, wouldn't you?" His smile widened. "I admire your endless optimism, Legolas. Never lose that."  
  
The elf sneered. "Oh I won't."  
  
"Well would you look at that," Ridley said cheerfully, returning his gaze to Aragorn. He was lying on his side on the floor, blood spreading around him like some grotesque advancing crimson mat. "He's really bleeding now, isn't he?"  
  
"If he dies..." Legolas growled through his clenched teeth.  
  
"But he is dying. Just not quick enough." He frowned as though in thought. "But yes, I do see what you mean. That would be a terrible shame, wouldn't it?" He shrugged, unconcerned. "Time to choose. You can save him or kill me, but you can't do both. Which will it be?"  
  
Legolas gave what looked like a lopsided grin, which wasn't meant to be a grin at all but a scowl. "There are two of us."  
  
Ridley nodded slowly. "I noticed that. But the way I figure it, one of you will need to stem the flow and the other will need to race for a healer before he bleeds to death...unless you don't really care about him."  
  
"This is madness!" Gimli cried.  
  
"Really? What do you think, Legolas? You should know this one." Before the elf could answer, Ridley's hand reached forward to grab Aragorn's forehead. He held the knife's tip to the back of Aragorn's neck just below the skull. "Your knives, Legolas. Now. Then back up."  
  
The elf crawled forward then pushed the knives again. They clattered along the floor and came to a stop just in front of Aragorn's stomach. He backed off slowly as Ridley picked them up and tossed them behind him into the corner.  
  
"Now... " Ridley's hand reached for Aragorn's forehead again. His head was pulled back once more, and Aragorn felt something cold and sharp bite into the back of his neck. His head was pulled sharply backward to ease the passage of the knife. Aragorn jerked, then stilled. "...choose," Ridley said. He leapt to his feet and tore out through the open passageway.  
  
Legolas didn't waste time rising to his feet – he scrambled forward on his hands and knees. Gimli stood frozen for only a moment and then raced forward as well. He dropped behind Aragorn and brushed his hair away to see the new wound. The elf was beside him in an instant, pushing Gimli's hands away. The dwarf gave way instantly.  
  
Time stood still. Finally: "Legolas..." Gimli said tensely.  
  
"He's breathing." The elf was still leaning; his eyes narrowed, carefully fingering through Aragorn's sweat-soaked hair.  
  
"Legolas, is it – " Gimli asked slowly, utterly beside himself with worry.  
  
"Get out of the light!" Legolas hissed.  
  
Gimli leaned back to sit on his heels, wringing his hands in front of him.  
  
After a few agonizing moments the elf let out a breath of air, one he didn't know he was holding, and said: "Oh Lords..." and sagged with relief. "He missed the spine. A bluff. It's just a nick. But his side...and his arm..." His clamped a hand over each, his gaze cutting to the dwarf, and with an angry light coming into his eyes he cried furiously: "Go, Gimli! Take Ridley down!"  
  
"Aye, I will! Stay with Aragorn!" the dwarf called as he raced from the room, the executioner's axe back in his able hands.  
  
Aragorn shuddered then stilled. Legolas dropped his head to Aragorn's chest, slamming his palm against his other ear to deaden any other sounds. He heard the king's heartbeat. It was slow and weak, granted, but still there. He re-gripped the side and arm tight, and as he did, Aragorn's eyes fluttered open. "Legolas, where are you?" His voice was no more than a soft whisper.  
  
Legolas felt a strange déjà vu, as if time had flipped backwards and restructured itself. He remembered Aragorn holding him as he had asked that very question. He remembered his own weakening and the sensation of floating. He remembered his own death, and remembered that Aragorn had held him as he slipped away. Now it was his turn to do for his friend what his friend had done for him.  
  
"I'm here, Aragorn. I'm right here. It's alright," he said quickly, his eyes anxiously darting between Aragorn's ashen face and the passageway. "Just lie still."  
  
"I've been stabbed," Aragorn said with a slight look of surprise, though his voice was too calm and his words were slurred as though he'd been drinking. He struggled to rise. "I didn't know..."  
  
"Just stay still," Legolas said, leaning over him and using his weight to hold him down. He didn't dare move his hands now. "Don't move."  
  
The elf's eyes flittered to his friend's before lowering to look at his own hands – one clamped tight over Aragorn's bicep and the other pressed tight over his side. Dark blood seeped between the fingers of both. Heavy blood. Too much blood. He looked up toward the empty passageway.  
  
/Where are they?/ he wondered, his anxiety growing until he felt like screaming. His mind frantically raced over the same thought: /Come on, come on, come on, come on... /  
  
"Legolas, I didn't know..."  
  
Legolas was speaking again, Aragorn was almost sure of it, but he couldn't hear him; his ears were buzzing – the noise as though he had shoved his head into a beehive. He felt his body relax and wilt without his consent. Then his eyes closed, also without his consent. The pain diminished.  
  
Then he began to float.  
  
He drifted above it, warm and safe and secure. At first there were shouts, echoing footsteps, a far-off scream – /Me?/ he wondered – and now...  
  
...he was  
  
(dying)  
  
floating above it all.  
  
Weightless.  
  
Painless.  
  
He bobbed higher, lifting on a warm sea of nothingness, while voices whispered around him. He couldn't make out any of the words, and that should have bothered him, but for some reason it didn't. Right now, he didn't care about anything except how good he felt, and how right this felt, and how he wanted this wonderful feeling to go on forever and ever and ever...  
  
What are you willing to sacrifice? a voice whispered in his mind.  
  
Aragorn thought of Legolas – of their friendship and all their trials and travels and sacrifices. He thought of Arwen and of his love for her. Thought of the promise he had made to Orome. Thought of Gondor and of what would happen to her without him – without a rightful king – and of all the work and all the fighting and all the losses, both human and elven alike, and all the sacrifices and pain and suffering. Thought of all he would be giving up and all he would miss out on and all he still wanted to do. And through it all, he realized that Gondor was bigger than him or any of them, even bigger than the loves and fears of his own heart. He had fought too long and too hard and lost too much to let it go now. That's when he realized that he wasn't ready to die. Someday, maybe, but not yet. Not now. And not like this. He would sacrifice...this, and fight like a demon to live and make a difference, and keep his promise to Orome.  
  
What are you willing to sacrifice? the voice again whispered in his mind.  
  
/Everything, Orome,/ he answered. But he wondered if that was enough.  
  
He suddenly dropped...and the ugly pain returned with a vengeance. He heard himself groaning as though from miles away. Felt many hands unfastening his clothes. Felt cold, naked, exposed, but couldn't move to cover himself; couldn't so-much-as find the strength to open his eyes. Felt a silky sheet cover him to the waist. His chest felt wet. Hard to breath. Harder. Weakening...  
  
A voice whispered urgently in his ear. At first he couldn't make out the words, but the tone was soothing, none the less. Then he recognized the voice – Legolas' voice. He sounded distressed, croaking, on the verge of tears. He tried to force his lips to form words of comfort but could not make them move. His body refused to listen to him... and he was still weakening.  
  
All his concentration focused onto one goal: Keep breathing.  
  
I know what I am willing to sacrifice for Gondor, Orome's words flittered in his mind. What are you willing to sacrifice?   
  
/Everything,/ Aragorn thought in answer. /Everything. Help me... /  
  
Part 3  
  
Aragorn awoke slowly and in a decent bit of pain. As for what day it was or what hour, he didn't know. But at least he awoke...and that was something, though at the moment he wasn't at all sure if that was a good something or a bad something.  
  
He was aware that his hands were being held down. No, that wasn't right. His hands weren't being held down; they were being held – held by other hands. One felt soft and slender, and one felt rougher and almost as slender. He had the sensation of two people – one on either side of him. The softer hand gripped his tighter. The rougher one loosened its hold but didn't break the grip.  
  
His eyes fluttered open.  
  
He blinked several times and forced them to focus.  
  
A face filled his field of vision. A beautiful face. The most beautiful face in Middle Earth. Arwen. Smiling warmly, she leaned and gently brushed a stubborn lock of dark curl off his forehead.  
  
He was alarmed to see tears standing in her eyes. His mouth opened, meaning to speak, meaning to comfort her...to tell her he was alright...to tell her not to worry.  
  
Meant to, in fact, but she touched her fingers to his lips to stop him, then glanced to the left. He followed her gaze to the sleeping form of Legolas curled in a chair beside the bed, the weary elf's hand still holding his even in sleep. Aragorn was well used to battle, but he had never seen anything quite like this before. Legolas looked as though he might have come straight out of a slaughterhouse. His sleeves, the whole front of his tunic, and his breeches – knees, calves, and all – were stiff with dried blood.  
  
For a moment he thought Legolas had been horribly injured until Arwen saw his startled look and explained: "He refused to leave you, even to clean up." She paused. Smiled. "He said that he would not leave his brother for any reason."  
  
His gaze lifted back to her. He gave a ghost of a smile as she  
  
slipped his ring back onto his finger then placed the Evenstar  
  
pendant into the palm of his hand and closed his fingers around it.  
  
Her lips brushed his as he slipped back into the land of dreams.  
  
Tbc... 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen  
  
The Most Rare Of Beasts: Men Of Honour  
  
Part 1  
  
After two weeks, Aragorn decided that he'd had enough poking and prodding to last a lifetime. Though two weeks was not enough time to fully recover, two weeks of lying in bed like a lump was about all he could stand. He let the healers rail on unchecked, giving nods at all the appropriate times and grunting no's at all the others (hoping he looked genuine), while he struggled into his robe. Then clutching his still tender side he made his slow way out into the hallway and down the stairs, leaving the healers to rail amongst themselves and the walls.  
  
Legolas was sitting on a stone bench in the courtyard, his face upturned to the sun. As soon as Aragorn stepped one heavy foot out onto the courtyard's stones the elf turned to the sound, then he jumped up and made as though to rush over.  
  
"No. Legolas, it's alright," he said, holding up a hand up to stop him as he descended the small flight of stairs and started down the walk.  
  
As soon as he hit the sunshine, he began to sweat. He needed to start moving again. His muscles were stiff and sore; too used to doing nothing and starting to like doing nothing too much. So were his lungs. He was panting by the time he made the twenty or so feet to the bench. Legolas carefully helped him lower down and Aragorn let himself be helped.  
  
He sat on the bench with sweat from his exertions dampening his face. Though his skin was still too pale and the signs that he had been badly beaten were still clearly visible, he still looked a far cry better to Legolas than he had when he had first bent over him in the meeting chamber. It had been all Legolas could do to try to stop Aragorn's life's blood from leaking out while waiting for the healers. For one terrible moment, the elf had been positive Aragon was dead.  
  
Legolas found himself wishing he could go back and kill Ridley for this, and that led to him to another thought.  
  
"What really happened to Ridley?" he asked. "Did anyone tell you?"  
  
Aragorn shook his head slowly. "No. Everyone's keeping pretty tight- lipped about it all. You've probably heard as much as I have – which isn't much."  
  
Legolas looked at him assessingly, then slowly shook his head. "You look..." Terrible was the word Legolas was going to say, but he held it back and frowned instead. He searched for the right word, and when he found it, a small, wiry smile touched the corners of his mouth. "...better," he finished.  
  
Aragorn grinned. "Liar. But I'll take it."  
  
"Bad?"  
  
"Sore as though I'd been stabbed, thank you very much." Aragorn winced and shifted to get more comfortable, but that was a near impossibility. "But at least it's not like it was." He cocked an eyebrow. "What about you? How are you doing?"  
  
Legolas shrugged, and his thoughts kept returning to the room where Aragorn almost died. His eyes fixed on two sparrows zooming around the courtyard, twittering and chirping happily as they did their wild, mid-air dance. Aragorn noted that Legolas looked strangely sad as he watched them. And there was something else. Hurt? Yes. Aragorn saw the hurt in his eyes. He waited patiently then made a great effort.  
  
"Legolas, I understand, you know. You can talk to me."  
  
/But I don't really understand,/ Aragorn thought. /And I doubt if I ever will. I've come face to face with the darkness that lurks inside you, and even now – knowing all that I do of why it had happened, how it had happened, and knowing the darkness is gone now – it still bothers me. Sitting next to you is like sitting next to a cave some monster came out of. The cave is sealed now and the monster can't get out, you know that, but you still give the cave a nervous look and a wide berth as you pass. And even if Greenleaf never returns, there are still the memories. There's Orome, for instance, who came back knowing he was going to go through the pain of sacrificing himself. But he did it anyway. He did it because of you, Legolas./  
  
But to think any of that wasn't fair, and Aragorn knew it. He just couldn't help it. He couldn't forget the look on Greenleaf's face – the look of hate exclusively for him – and the madness in his eyes.  
  
He wondered if he would ever be able to forget it, and strangely enough, to forgive it.  
  
/No you don't understand,/ Legolas thought. /How could you? You don't understand what I am, and you never really will. I'm not sure I understand, either, but I'm trying to. I felt them. I still feel them; separate, yet now one, if that makes any sense. I am a combination of Legolas and Greenleaf – the light and the darkness – both fighting for control of my soul. There are times even now where I feel like a child of those two fathers, those two saviours and destroyers. Greenleaf might be gone from sight but he is still a part of me. He's half of me. He will always be right here, waiting to get out. Gimli understands that. He's avoiding me like I'm a walking plague. He's frightened of me – of what I was and what I am. And if that's not reason enough, he committed murder because of me – because I didn't tell him to stop Ridley, I told him to kill him...and he did. He'll never forgive me for that. And you...Lord's help me, I almost killed you. How can things ever be the same between you, Gimli, and me after this?/  
  
Legolas drew a deep breath. "Aragorn, I'm sorry for what I did. I could not stop him. And then to ask you to... I'm not a coward. I didn't give up on living for living's sake and I never gave up on you, but I just couldn't see any other way. I shouldn't have asked you to..."  
  
"I know," Aragorn said to Legolas, and put a hesitant hand on the elf's shoulder. When Legolas immediately covered it with his own, Aragorn smiled. "It's alright, Legolas. I know."  
  
/I might not be able to forget,/ Aragorn thought, /but there is nothing to forgive. He's my brother, and he always will be./  
  
Legolas smiled. He remembered how badly he'd wanted to feel that comfort before, and was not surprised at how badly he needed it now. It felt like he'd been holding his breath and waiting for this for years.  
  
Aragorn, perhaps reading his mind, grinned and slung an arm around his friend's shoulders. "Ahh... it looks like we've lived though another adventure," he mused.  
  
"Yes." Legolas glanced at him. "Barely. And speaking of adventures, I seem to recall hearing you say that when you became king our adventures would come to an end."  
  
"I did not," Aragorn said, struggling to try to conceal a smirk and failing miserably.  
  
Legolas frowned. "Yes you did," he said, missing the joke entirely. "Don't you remember that night by the campfire when – "  
  
Aragorn grinned. "I was kidding."  
  
"Oh." Legolas reddened. "I knew that."  
  
Gimli walked out of the palace, spotted them, and trotted over. Stopping in front of them, he puffed out his barrel-chest and folded his arms across it. "You are not supposed to be out of bed," he said to Aragorn in a dry, brisk, administrator's voice. Then he cut an accusing gaze to Legolas. "And you should not have let him."  
  
Legolas raised a placatory hand. "I didn't let him. He let himself."  
  
/Now is as good a time as any to change the subject,/ Aragorn thought, and began, "Gimli..."  
  
The dwarf eyed him tensely. His arms, still folded on his puffed chest, seemed to snug up as though no longer in a defiant posture but in a defensive one.  
  
Aragorn licked his lips, and for a moment Legolas didn't thing he would be able to ask, again. /If you don't, I will,/ Legolas thought...but Aragorn managed, bringing the words out slowly and methodically.  
  
"What really happened to Ridley?" He saw the dwarf stiffen; a bit stunned by the blunt question. Aragorn ignored it and ploughed on, though treading softer down this already well traveled path. "I mean, I was told that Ridley made his way up to the roof, but what really happened up there?" he asked, then waved his hand back and forth between them. "Just between us."  
  
"Well," Gimli said, "if I had killed him, the Lords know he deserved it. After what he did to you and Legolas...not to mention almost taking the crown as well as my head." He paused. "He was evil. No one would have been safe as long as he remained alive, Aragorn – least of all you." He shrugged. "But fate took care of him."  
  
"Fate? But I thought..." Legolas looked a bit stunned. "I mean, I just assumed that..." He paused. Smiled. "You mean, you didn't?"  
  
"Of course I didn't, you pointy-eared half-wit," Gimli growled indignantly. "The fool slipped. That's all there was to it."  
  
"Really?" Legolas shook his head and gave a tiny sigh of relief. "And here I thought that you...and I wasn't thinking when I said...so I thought you blamed me for telling you to... This is the first time you've spoken of it, so naturally I just assumed..." He rubbed his face in his hands. "Thank the Lords."  
  
"Legolas, hush!" Gimli said huffily. "Get ahold of your tongue. Do you think I'd killed him just because you told me to? I wanted to, alright, but I didn't. Ridley slipped." /But I know who nudged him,/ Gimli thought. /And for his sake, as well as both of yours, I can live with it. And I'll sleep well enough with it, too./  
  
"Slipped," Aragorn repeated doubtfully, and the relieved look tumbled off Legolas' face at once. Aragorn noted this as he turned to Gimli again. "You do know that the councillors plan to investigate this, don't you?"  
  
The dwarf raised a brow. "Yes. What of it?"  
  
"Well they say that you have no alibi at the time of Ridley's death. It doesn't matter what he did, if he was forced to the roof's edge after being taken into custody, it's still murder. If you know anything..."  
  
Gimli shrugged. "He ran up there and slipped off. I can't be held responsible for him taking a misstep."  
  
Legolas turned to Aragorn. "Ridley committed high treason. If his death isn't justified, I don't know what is. It's not like his death should be a questionable – "  
  
Aragorn shook his head to cut him off. "But it is, Legolas. Look, we've been all over this," he said, and indeed they had. Many times. This was getting old, fast. Frustration was starting to creep back into his voice. "I've already explained to you that there are laws, even if it's clear. By law, Ridley should have been brought before of the people of Gondor to stand trial for his crimes. Otherwise, we're no better than he was."  
  
The elf studied Aragorn's face carefully. Then his eyes widened. "How serious is this? Surely not – "  
  
"It's serious, Legolas," he answered gravely. "It's very serious."  
  
All fell silent. Gimli looked down at his boots and cleared his throat.  
  
"Explain it to me again, then," Legolas said, forcing himself to speak in his softest voice. "I would like to hear this law that makes no sense, again, then protest it again. There is no question of Ridley's actions nor of his intentions. He would have been found guilty anyway – true?"  
  
Aragon lowered his forehead into his palm and nodded.  
  
"So what's the difference if he met his end publicly or privately?"  
  
/Great. Another argument,/ Aragorn thought. /Lords, but I'm sick of this./  
  
Last night's row had been about the same thing – again. Both he and Legolas had hounded Gimli to talk about it; Gimli had not. So they had argued. Except for Gimli. Much to Aragorn's chagrin, he refused to join in. He only made comments when questioned directly and then his responses were cryptic.  
  
"There's no question of his guilt, Legolas," Aragorn agreed, "but that's not the point." He looked the elf dead in the eyes. "If he was killed while already in custody, it's murder – hundreds of witnesses or not," he explained, again. Legolas looked at him, gaping and puzzled. "By law, if he was killed while in custody, than whoever did it is also a murderer and has to be held accountable for it."  
  
"But an executioner kills one already in custody. Is he also considered a murderer?" Legolas argued.  
  
"No," Aragorn said.  
  
"See?"  
  
"An executioner follows orders, Legolas. He caries out a sentence after a trial, not before one."  
  
Legolas thought, and thought hard. At last he looked up, his brow furrowed. "If you gave the executioner the order, does that not make you a murderer?"  
  
"No."  
  
Legolas stared down at his folded hands like in a dream, looking at them for a moment as if he didn't know what in the world they were, and then looked back at him, clenching his hands nervously. He willed them open, and they did, for a time. Then, as the weight of what Aragorn was saying hit him, they rolled themselves closed again, the nails digging into his palms. Aragorn could see him working to clear his mind and emotions of the impact this had made. He respected him for it. And he was very glad he had done it.  
  
Legolas brought his eyes up to meet Aragorn's. "You're the king," he said guardedly. "Surely you can do something."  
  
Aragorn looked to the ground and shook his head.  
  
"But you can't leave Gimli to the advisors just so they can save face. It was their mistake to blindly trust Ridley and not know the difference between you and him – not Gimli's. They just want to cover their shame by proving they were right in the first place. You know they're only using him as a scapegoat."  
  
Aragorn nodded. "It's worse than that," he said broodingly, but did not elaborate. Instead he went back to the current subject. "I just found out this morning that the councillors are planning to push this. As far as Gimli is concerned, they..." already think he's guilty, he was going to say, but let the words trail off. "Legolas, I am trying to stop it," he said in a tone of voice that was losing all patience (/And if I ever get a straight answer from Gimli, maybe I'll be able to,/ he thought), then turned his attention back to the dwarf. "Gimli, I ask you again – was Ridley in custody?"  
  
"No."  
  
Aragorn's hands clenched on the tie of his robe. "Then how did he end up on the roof?"  
  
"How should I know?" The dwarf said roughly. "With all the exits guarded, most likely the idiot panicked and ran up there. He slipped. That was all there was to it."  
  
"He had the reflexes of an elf. He didn't really slip, did he," Aragorn added as though to himself. It was not a question, but a statement. A hard statement.  
  
No answer.  
  
"Gimli," Aragorn said, "was Ridley in custody at the time?"  
  
Gimli chewed on his lower lip, taking so long to answer that for a moment Aragorn didn't believed he would. Then finally: "No, Aragorn. He was not. He slipped. That's what happened. And it couldn't have happened to a more deserving man."  
  
Defeated, Aragorn closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.  
  
Legolas watched the dwarf...watched the sweat trickle down his temples... watched his eyes shift up and to the left. It was obviously that he was lying through his teeth. But why? Would he...?  
  
Yes. He would.  
  
"Who are you protecting, Gimli?" Legolas asked matter-of-factly.  
  
"No one," the dwarf answered a little too quickly, hoping his lying words sounded more truthful to their ears than they did to his.  
  
Part 2  
  
Above them, Alflocksom slowly backed away from his bedchamber window high above the courtyard and lowered to the edge of his bed. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he raised his hands and placed them over his face. He sat like that for a long, long time, contemplating.  
  
He thought of Ridley, and of the scream that would likely forever haunt his nightmares. He thought of Brysom, his son, and felt the instant and familiar pang of loss. He thought of the councillors, and though he had no proof, knew that they had to have known Ridley wasn't Aragorn and yet had turned a blind eye in favour of personal gain; so determined were they to cover their own tracks that they were now attempting to shift the focus off themselves and onto the innocent dwarf rather than let the people see their true colours. He thought of Caspian and his role in all of this. At the same time he though of his own part in this madness, this...test, and couldn't help wondering what the purpose was behind it all. As he mulled all of this over he felt sick and helpless and angry.  
  
/Wretched is the greed that drives men to unspeakable acts,/ he thought. /They forget that you are born with nothing, and when you die you take nothing with you. There are only two things that are truly valuable in this life: your honour and your word. If Man valued these above all else, none of this would have happened./  
  
Then he thought: /A test. A test of beliefs, of resolve, and of loyalty. A test of worth. The only one not tested in all of this mess, it seemed, was Ridley. He was merely the pawn, the catalyst. This test was for Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and so many more./  
  
How odd that what at first had seemed only to affect one, in reality had affected so many, he reflected. In truth, everyone had been tested in this except Ridley. Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, the prison warden, the people of Gondor...  
  
"...and now me," he whispered "Now it's my test to either pass or fail."  
  
Alflocksom remembered the minutes just before Ridley had emerged from the labyrinth. A voice had come to him as he had watched the warden depart – not one spoken by mouth, but more carried on the wind. It whispered to his mind: What are you willing to sacrifice for Gondor? His eyes had lowered to the bundle in his hands. "Give me a chance and I'll show you," he had murmured. "Just one chance. That's all I ask."  
  
Well, he got that chance, alright. Got it...and used it.  
  
Now remembering it, he told himself: /Ridley's death was justifiable. He had tried to murder the king, had taken the crown, and had deceived everyone in the process. And worse above anything else – he had put Gondor at risk. He had to be stopped. I had to stop him,/ Alflocksom thought, and felt another fresh flash of powerful hate for that creature – Ridley, and all the things he had done.  
  
Now Orome's words came to him again, this time as clearly as though spoken in his ear: What are you willing to sacrifice?   
  
His head raised and his whisper was only a breath of sound. "For what? For myself? Nothing. To save an innocent? To save Gimli from death or a lifetime of misery in a prison?" The knowledge that he'd even thought about the dwarf (and wouldn't have had it been a few weeks earlier) struck him as funny, and he chuckled lightly. "Dwarf or not, I would sacrifice everything..." Then his face hardened as he added: "But I've already sacrificed everything I have, Orome. You have my son. Isn't that enough?"  
  
There was no answer. He didn't expect any.  
  
Brysom. There wasn't a waking moment since Brysom's death that Alflocksom's heart didn't pain with grief and pine for want of him back. Brysom was the apple of his eye, a dream-child-come-true, who had grown to be a highly respected young man with a maturity well beyond his years – so respected, in fact, that he had risen to the lofty rank of captain, like himself, a position never before achieved by one so young. That had been a proud, proud day indeed, and Alflocksom – a bursting-with-pride father.  
  
Alflocksom, an honourable man raised by an honourable man, had nudged Brysom to join the guards – an honourable profession – and join he did, as any honourable young man would. Alflocksom proudly watched Brysom move up through the ranks and became an honourable man – a hero – with so much of life still ahead of him. And now he is dead, moulding in some Lords-awful grave. An honourable death.  
  
/Hang honour. I'd rather have my son back./  
  
He had taught the boy by example – years of trying to be the best so his son would have a proper role model. All the guidance, the training, the encouragement...then in one second of calculated, aware rage, he had disgraced not only himself and all those before him, but his son's memory as well. In that one second on the palace roof he had become what he hated the most – a dishonourable man. And yet in his heart he not only knew it had to be done, but would do it again, if needs be.  
  
But what he was about to do now would not only destroy everything that had taken a lifetime to build, but also tarnish the memory of his son in one fell swoop. Still, he was tired. Tired of all of this. Tired of the pain and grief and loss and guilt at not being there for Brysom the way Aragorn had been there for Legolas, and Legolas, in turn, had been there for Aragorn.  
  
What are you willing to sacrifice? the voice asked him again.  
  
"I would sacrifice my precious honour," Alflocksom said quietly, "but I have none now, so it seems I have nothing left to sacrifice but myself. If you want me, you're welcome to me. I grow weary of this world and it's corruption. I've done my job – Gondor is safe, and now...I'm tired."  
  
There was no answer, but he didn't expect any.  
  
He pulled the letter from inside his tunic. Placing it on the nightstand beside him he spread it open and glanced it over. When satisfied, he refolded it with care and held the candle's flame to the black sealing wax to drip a few decent drops. He pressed his signet ring to it then held it close to the candle, directing the light in a slanting manner over it's surface, and was satisfied the he could make out the ring's impression in the now-hard wax. Everyone knew his ring almost as well as they knew Aragorn's. There would be no question of the note's authenticity. In it was a full, signed confession detailing his part and exonerating the dwarf. The outside was labelled, fittingly: 'For the king's eyes only.' Nodding to himself, he laid it back on the nightstand.  
  
"And this will make sure the councillors give this note their full attention."  
  
Alflocksom, Captain of the guards of Gondor who's bloodline traced back to Orome himself (though he had no way of knowing that) pulled the small, clear-liquid vial from it's leather pouch and stretched out on his bed. He pulled the stopper from it's neck and held it up in a sort of "cheers" fashion.  
  
"I have done my duty and am tired of this life," he whispered. "May the Lords forgive me what I'm about to do."  
  
Alflocksom was raising the vial again, towards his lips. A sparrow came out of nowhere and landed on the back of his upraised hand. Surprised, he froze, the vial stopping less than six inches from his mouth. The bird hopped onto his fingers and turned to look at him. Perching there, it's tiny head tilted first one way then the other as though in question.  
  
"Come for me, have you?" Alflocksom said to it. "Thank y – "  
  
The sparrow pecked him, suddenly and violently, driving it's tiny but dagger-sharp beak deep into the back of his hand and drawing blood. The vial flew from his fingers and shattered on the floor.  
  
"Why?" Alflocksom asked, staring at the tiny harbinger in shocked wonder. "Why did you do that?"  
  
It tilted its head once more, seeming to stare into his eyes as it did. Then it flew out through the open window and disappeared into the day.  
  
As he swung his feet off the bed and sat up, his eyes found the smashed vial; it's contents draining into a space between two of the many stone blocks that made up the floor. He looked at the back of his hand – at the dark droplet of blood pooling in the small hole – and frowned.  
  
"Why?" he asked again.  
  
There was no response, not even in his head this time, but he thought he knew the answer all the same. He thought Orome would have known, too. What had just happened was not of this world. Perhaps the sparrow had been moved by some higher power to forcibly remind him of that.  
  
(They are Harbingers of the dead, Aragorn. No one can control them – at least not for long.)  
  
/What good can come from stopping me?/ he wondered. Then: /Have I not done enough?/  
  
There was no answer. At least, not yet. And there was this – perhaps it can't be answered yet.  
  
Perhaps this test is not over.  
  
Part 3  
  
With the watch over and the arrival of his relief, young Caspian had gone silently, mounting the stairs to the barracks as he had so often, bothered with a mixture of nerves and tension. Though bone-tired, he had a sneaking suspicion that this would be another sleepless night.  
  
And now here he was – his suspicions confirmed – in his bed and still wide awake as the stars paled and the first brighter shades began to colour the new sky. The events of the past few days replayed through his mind in a kind of surreal fantasy, like a enormous wall of cloaked portraits – and the one uncovered with the most persistence was the face of Wren. He thought of how often that face met him in his most pleasant dreams, and smiling to himself, wondered if love could actually drive a man mad. He would never have believed so before. Was hers that beautiful a face? Yes, to him it was. To him there was no sight more beautiful in the whole world.  
  
He tossed and turned from one side of his bed to the other, then rolled onto his back again. Folding his arms behind his head, he looked into the shadows of the room and listened to the first faint stirrings of the city.  
  
Again he thought of Wren...and a terrible thought that he might never see her face after today prompted him to rise.  
  
/Should I go to her?/ he wondered.  
  
Yes, and why not? He would find no sleep in what little remained of this night anyway, he thought. His mind was too active with worry to allow even a moment of rest. The time was coming as surely as the sun would rise, and though he'd never stop it's approach, even if he could, he felt there would be no harm in trying to slow it a little. Besides, if this day went as he expected, this may be his last chance to see her as a free man...or a living one.  
  
He crept silently out of the barracks, tacked up the big bay gelding, then rode out of Minas Tirith and headed straight to Wren. Dust clouds, stirred by the bay's pounding hooves, gathered behind them like small whirlwinds. He knew he'd be spotted but he didn't care. He needed to see her, to hold her, and needed her to hold him. He desperately needed to be held, especially now.  
  
Part 4  
  
Alflocksom, Seigen, Vedt, and Aic came out onto the terrace only two minutes after Caspian had passed the city's gates. By then the sun was just peeking over the horizon. For anyone else but the palace kitchen staff the time of day was too early to be up, wide awake, and fully dressed; but to the four captains, it was already late in the morning.  
  
Alflocksom leaned his elbows on the stone escarpment and spotted the billowing dust trail. He watched it until it disappeared over the far rise; and even then continued to watch.  
  
"Who left?" Aic asked. He sounded sullen and sleepy. In truth, he had been troubled by today's coming events all night – so troubled that sleep had completely eluded him, and for the same reason had eluded them all, though none would admit that. It's not like they were trying to out-do one another, but as Vedt had once put it, "We have a certain image to maintain, even amongst ourselves."  
  
"I believe that was our young trainee, Caspian," Alflocksom said mildly, continuing to watch.  
  
"Oh? I wonder where he's off to in such a hurry."  
  
"Good Lords, Aic, how old are you?" Seigen asked, smiling, then clapped Aic on the shoulder. "Don't tell me you can't remember why a young man would go sneaking off? Has it been that long?"  
  
Aic looked at him for a moment, then he also smiled. "No," he said. "I'm not that old."  
  
Alflocksom straightened, stretched, and then they walked across the terrace toward a table. Halfway there, he came to a stop and turned again as though half-expecting to see Caspian returning. Seeing nothing, he gave a small sigh and shook his head. "Guilt," he said in a soft, sad voice, and walked on.  
  
"Guilt?" Seigen repeated surly. "Why would he have guilt? It's not like he did any more than the rest of us were allowed to do."  
  
Alflocksom shrugged as he sat in the chair and let the subject drop. He knew what Caspian was searching for but it was nothing like what Seigen was thinking. Caspian was young. He was desperate for a little comfort, that's all. Simply put, the boy needed a hug. As for how he knew that and how he knew why Caspian needed that, neither were subjects he was willing to discuss right now. Not with any of them. And certainly not with Seigen. There has been a hard edge to Seigen's teasing ever since Ridley's death; the old light-heartedness was now cut with unpleasant bitterness. But Seigen wasn't the only one who'd changed. Vedt – ever the rigid one, now seemed an impenetrable stone wall. Aic – normally reserved and deeper thinker, had all but withdrawn into himself. The king – grim and troubled. The elf seemed at war with himself. The dwarf – distant and often alone. And as for himself? Oh yes, he'd changed, too. It was getting harder and harder to present a calm exterior when he was constantly on edge.  
  
/Damn Ridley,/ Alflocksom thought. /He's still affecting us all...even from his grave./  
  
Part 5  
  
They were the best kisses of Caspian's whole young life: the fragrance of her breath as he breathed in what she breathed out, the softness of her mouth, the feel of her slender arms around his neck. He slipped a hand around her waist and pulled her closer. His other hand went to her hair and combed along the side of it, soft as silk and as dark as a raven's wing. Whoever said, "A kiss can whisper the hearts desire," wasn't kidding. He burned for her like a torch. But kisses would have to be enough. After all, although he was young, he was honourable, or trying to be anyway.  
  
He dropped back to the straw and looked at her. She giggled and bit her lip. When he took her hand and pulled her down into his arms, she did not resist him. They lay with their foreheads touching, and when she slipped a hand beneath his tunic to touch his chest, her fingers found...paper.  
  
"Ah-ha!" she cried, sitting up and waving it over his face. "What's this? A commission? A secret plan? A love letter to another woman?"  
  
"Stop teasing and give it back," he said, more harshly than he meant.  
  
He reached for it. She giggled and drew back. His hand surrounded her wrist. She changed hands and held the paper out of his reach. Wrestling but being careful not to hurt her, they grappled back and forth. The paper flew from her hand and fluttered to the straw behind them. Twisting quickly, he launched for it. When she reached to try and snatch it away from him he held her back with one hand and waved it in the air above her. She tipped her head back and laughed, the sound musical. He loved the sound of it.  
  
"Will you read it to me, then?" she asked though giggles while she crossed her arms over the front of her dress.  
  
"Aye, lady. I will. If you'll let me." Dilemma. He knew if he stuffed it back into his tunic she would think it a love note. If he did read it...well, he just wouldn't. That left him with no other choice than to pretend to read it. As long as he sounded convincing enough she'd believe him, because he knew she couldn't read – not a word. "It's a poem," he lied. And thought: /One I've been wanting to say since the first moment I saw you./  
  
"Oh! For me?" she asked innocently.  
  
"Of course it's for you," he said, grinning. "Who else?"  
  
She leapt up and brushed the front of her apron, to which small bits of straw now clung, then plopped back down beside him and waited.  
  
Rolling onto his stomach he straightened the paper and cleared his throat loudly. He stole a glance up at her, grinned (she grinned back), then began:  
  
"From starlight shaped the Lords a gift, and set amid the fair, to walk among mere mortal man, exquisiteness most rare. Why thee that captures heart and soul would eye this homely man, though plain, would suffer more than death for one touch of your hand.  
  
If under moon love lose her way, shine path for her to see yon Lover's Moon, glow brighter still, and lead her back to me. Pray give my love her fondest wish, waste none to save this ruin, My heart's ensnared and honour bound, fair trial by Lover's Moon."  
  
He waited for a response – his heart pounding furiously in his chest as he did – and heard nothing. After a moment he glanced up and met her eyes.  
  
"Oh Caspian, you wrote that for me?" she said, and for the first time her voice unanchored a little, wavering in her throat. He was alarmed to see that there were tears standing in her eyes. "You...you love me, then? "  
  
"Wren," he whispered, his eyes flittering over her face, "I wanted you to know in case – "  
  
"Hush," she said faintly, touching her fingers to his lips. Her eyes overbrimmed; tears drew two silver lines down her cheeks. "Hush."  
  
"But I did something, Wren," he said, taking her hand. "I did something..."  
  
And I may never see you again, he wanted to say, but he didn't have to say anything. She leaned and stopped his words with soft kisses. At first he just let himself be kissed...and then he kissed her back just as softly, then almost furiously, urgently; sitting up and wrapping his arms around her; needing to be held, and she held him; needing to be kissed, and she kissed him. And these – these were the best kisses of his whole young life.  
  
/Fair trial?/  
  
His eyes snapped open and he let her go. "The trial..." he breathed. "Oh Lords, I'm late!"  
  
He leaned and kissed her quick, then leapt down off the straw mound and raced for his horse while stuffing the paper back inside his tunic.  
  
She watched him swing into the saddle and take up the reins. Cueing the big bay gelding, he turned him and urged him to all-speed. She sat where she was, on the straw pile under the lean-to, watching him ride flat-out with his hair streaming back from his temples and his tunic bellying behind him; willing him to turn and wave to her. Just when she was sure he wouldn't, he did turn in the saddle, and his hand lifted. She waved back. Only when he was just a speck in the distance did she lower her hand. Then she dropped back to the straw and smiled to herself, thinking of his handsome face, of how his mouth felt against hers, of the smell of his skin, the rough stubble on his cheeks. The words of love echoed hauntingly in her head.  
  
"My heart's ensnared and honour bound, fair trial by Lover's Moon," she whispered dreamily.  
  
Tbc... 


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen  
  
For Gondor  
  
Part 1  
  
An sober air hung over Minas Tirith as she was made ready for the trial – the trial that not only captivated the whole of Gondor as well as any outlying city, town, or village within shouting distance, riding distance, or signal-fire, but drew in the multitudes from idle curious to tongue- wagers. After all, it was not everyday that a charge of this enormity was brought to bear by no less by the full weight of the Councillor's of Gondor. But more than that, this time the accused wasn't a man, but a dwarf. Overnight, it seemed, Minas Tirith had changed from the city of kings to a spectacle, with a dwarf as the main attraction.  
  
Two mornings later, the people of Gondor assembled for the trial. The two sentries stood on either side of the sacred tree to protect it from the crushing throng.  
  
With the Throne room virtually empty of furniture save for the throne and the councillor's chairs to make more room; the guards were lined up with their usual precision at the front of the room scrutinizing the crowd in an attempt to protect both the dwarf and elf, as per Aragorn's orders; and the huge Throne room was crowded shoulder-to-shoulder with spectators who spilled out into the entranceway, the courtyard, the main grounds, and far past the tree itself.  
  
Alflocksom had resumed his place at the front of the room and now watched as the others went about in last minute observations of their own.  
  
"Caspian, is there a reason why you look like a walking wreck?" said Vedt sternly, stopping in front of the dishevelled young guard looking him up and down.  
  
Aic and Seigen were walking behind the line of guards. Now both behind Caspian, Aic looked at Seigen with his brows raised. He pointed to the young guard and then looked at Seigen again. Seigen easily saw something in Caspian's hair. He plucked it, a move so nimble that Caspian himself didn't feel it. With an idiot grin Seigen held up what he had plucked...a piece of straw, the colour of gold.  
  
Vedt's face darkened.  
  
Alflocksom struggled to conceal a knowing grin. He straightened before anyone noticed.  
  
"Sorry, sir. Late, sir," whispered the young guard, pulling at his clothes to straighten them.  
  
"Go shake yourself off, Caspian," Vedt growled, "and don't come back improperly dressed again. This is a formal affair, or have you forgotten yourself and who you represent?"  
  
The young guard dipped his head and glanced a guilty look at his captain as he darted into an empty hallway, and he read nothing but corroboration on Alflocksom's face. Undeniably, this time Alflocksom's view on the matter of protocol were identical with Vedt's: this was no ordinary trial but an extraordinary one, and because so, it was expected that the guards dress with particular attention – properly turned out with full and precise uniform.  
  
After about two minutes of beating both dust and straw off himself, Caspian returned to the line, looking a bit shaken but much neater.  
  
On signal, the four captains – Alflocksom, Vedt, Seigen, and Aic took their usual stations, two on either side of the throne in front of the first step leading to it, each in rigid posture with their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. This was more than pomp and symbolism of their stations. Each was strategically positioned not only according to their status, but also, if needs be, as a last line of defence of both the king and the throne.  
  
Their move signalled the councillors to enter, and the crowd instantly fell to silence as they did. It was a grave occasion, and in spite of the beautiful day, each councillor (ten in total and led to their seats by two flag bearers) walked single file up the room's carpeted runner as somberly as any funeral procession.  
  
As they entered, Alflocksom chanced a glance over at Seigen. It was no secret that there was no love lost between him and Jomy – the head of the councillors. Alflocksom was all but positive that Seigen's foolishness would pop out – the idiot would simply not be able to help himself, although he must realize that Jomy was no man to make sport of, especially now.  
  
As though on cue and just as Alflocksom predicted, Seigen muttered: "Damn weasel," without a trace of the usual laughter in his voice. Glancing over again, Alflocksom noted that Seigen's eyes were focused on the narrow-faced man walking toward him, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. On the positive side, he was managing to hold his ground, though just barely. Seigen hated that man – they all did – but Seigen, not one to hold his tongue at the best of times, looked as mad as a wet hen about to explode. Aic and Vedt were doing better, but Alflocksom knew that for whatever reason, Seigen's hate went much deeper than any of theirs. If there was to be any leading done here, he would have to do it. Now. And without being obvious.  
  
Clearing his throat softly to get Seigen's attention he shot him a sharp glare to shut him up before facing front again. Seigen snapped his eyes forward and for once managed to keep his mouth shut. Alflocksom was both amazed and relieved by this unexpected and immediate surrender.  
  
Gimli and Legolas were already standing at the front of the room, of course, with Legolas serving as the dwarf's sole but resolutely determined support. His eyes glittered with daggered warnings to the dwarf's accusers as they entered and were seated. One quick glance at Legolas in all his beautiful fury and the councillors went to great lengths to keep their eyes averted, their voices down, and their movements slow – when they dared move at all.  
  
With the councillors now seated, all in attendance turned expectantly toward the back of the room, then all dipped knee and head (all but Gimli and Legolas) as Aragorn walked unescorted – for she could not bear to witness this - to his throne at the front of the room. Gimli did nod his head, although slightly. Legolas, on the other hand, held Aragorn's gaze with unconcealed irritation. The look was not lost on the king; he gave a slight nod meant only for the elf while all other eyes were diverted, then glanced a concerned look at the dwarf before returning to the elf's eyes as he took his seat. The look of concern was not lost on Legolas; he nodded back almost imperceptibly; almost – because the silent exchange – indeed, all the exchanges – were not lost on Alflocksom. Though his head and knee were dipped in reverence, his eyes were not. Once Aragorn was seated, the crowd, et al, rose, and hushed murmurs of both speculation and anticipation began rippling throughout the room once more.  
  
Aragorn's gaze rested briefly on each councillor before settling on Gimli. He noted that the dwarf seemed to be taking it all in stride. Legolas, however, was not; that much was painfully evident. He continued to glare openly at each councillor. Clearly they were affected by the elf prince's rage: most looked positively stricken, three refused to look up past their own folded hands, and the last one – a thin, rat-faced man – refused to look at anything but the floor as he voiced the charge aloud.  
  
/I can't believe this,/ Aragorn thought grimly. /They're really going to go through with this insanity. If at the end of this they rule that Gimli is anything other than innocent, Legolas is going to defend him...and violently, if necessary./  
  
It was the grave faces of the councillors who had all of Aragorn's attention. That's why he didn't immediately notice when Alflocksom shifted his stance, reached inside his tunic, and pulled out the letter. Turning now and ignoring not only the councillors but the accused, the crowds, and his own guards as well, the captain advanced the stairs toward Aragorn. At the top and directly in front of the throne he lowered his head, dipped down to one knee, and held out the letter.  
  
"Alflocksom?" the king said, taking it.  
  
A look passed between Aic, Seigen, and Vedt – a wide-eyed look that silently asked, "What is he doing?" which was answered just as silently with: "I have no idea."  
  
The captain's head raised to look in Aragorn's eyes. "Sire, I can not stand by and see injustice done here." A long pause – a long, long pause. Then, "Sire, you already know what's in this."  
  
Aragorn nodded slowly, fastening him with his eyes, but they were soft eyes on a soft face. "Yes, Alflocksom, I do. And I have only one question for you: was –" He purposely cut his words off; no need to finish the sentence.  
  
The captain nodded solemnly. "Yes, sire. He was in – "  
  
"By my command, captain, not another word," Aragorn warned quickly, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing it firmly to silence him.  
  
Shoving the letter inside his own tunic Aragorn rose from the throne and motioned Alflocksom to follow suit, then he addressed Gimli's accusers in a stern voice.  
  
"Councillors, is there one among you who would dare question Captain Alflocksom's honour?" he asked.  
  
There was no reply, just nervous silence.  
  
Aic shot Seigen a worried look and mouthed, "What's going on?" The other shrugged back in a 'how-would-I-know?' shrug. Seigen leaned forward and shot the same look to Vedt, along with a 'have-you-been-keeping-something- from-us-that-we-should-have-known?' accusing glare. Vedt mouthed, "No" while shaking his head vigorously.  
  
Aragorn continued. "And would any among you dare call into question the captain's loyalty to Gondor?"  
  
Again, as Aragorn expected, there was no reply, unless you counted the quick snort of laughter from Seigen as a reply, which he promptly tried to cover by clearing his throat into a curled hand.  
  
"Then," Aragorn said, "the council can rest assured that no crime was committed here, but instead, swift justice, in protection of Gondor and her king. I am satisfied. And this trial is over. By my order, the council will stand down." Aragorn's voice rose to speak in the dead silence, and speaking in a clear voice that was a mixture of both formality and cheerfulness, he said, "Gimli, with my deepest apology and the apology of the Council of Gondor, all charges against you are dismissed. This court stands down."  
  
The councillor's faces fell, and Seigen couldn't help but smile smugly at Jomy's bulgy-eyed, stunned look. It was a step under what he really wanted to do which was to point at him and laugh out loud, but this would suffice. And besides, he knew that Vedt would be proud of him for holding back.  
  
Confused and still waiting for a trial that never happened, the crowd gave a collective and very audible gasp.  
  
"But sire – " Alflocksom began, turning to him.  
  
"Give your men the order to clear the palace and grounds," Aragorn said, lowering his voice. "I'd like a word with you in my chambers in ten minutes." The captain didn't move; just continued to stare at him. "Those are my orders, captain," he added low but level.  
  
"Yes, sire." Alflocksom's brow knit, studying him for a moment longer before turning to his men and giving orders in a low voice of his own.  
  
"Councillors," Aragorn said, "Legolas, Gimli, Aic, Vedt, and Seigen as well; a word in my chambers on the hour, gentlemen, if you please. I have some business to attend to first."  
  
Ten minutes later, Alflocksom – sweating and more than a touch confused, a million things racing through his mind all at once along with a million Lords-awful punishments for each – rapped a knuckle on the heavy door of Aragorn's private chambers.  
  
"Come," the king's voice called from within.  
  
The captain turned the handle easily, surprised that the door was unlocked. He returned abruptly to this world, ran a quick hand through his hair and walked into the king's chambers, lowering his head respectfully as he came in. He came to a halt in the middle of the room, hitched his sword backward and dipped down on a knee. Aragorn, seated in a chair, motioned to one of two empty chairs positioned across from him, and there Alflocksom sat, waiting for the explosion to come.  
  
None did. Instead, Aragorn regarded him for a moment then pulled the still- sealed letter from his tunic and held it up. "You know, you could have come to me, Alflocksom," he said quietly.  
  
"No, sire, I could not," the captain said, lowering his eyes. "The councillors – "  
  
"– forbad you to speak to me," Aragorn finished; nodding; already guessing. Alflocksom nodded, confirming his suspicious. "I see." Aragorn's face hardened at the thought. He held up the still-sealed letter and tore it in half, then again and again and again, until it was nothing but small puzzle pieces of inch-long scrap. He opened a drawer in the table beside him, dropped the pieces inside, and then slid it closed.  
  
"Do you know how many letters I've received?" Aragorn asked.  
  
"Uhh... no, sire," Alflocksom said, honestly confused by the question.  
  
"One hundred and seventy-three as of yesterday," Aragorn said, a small spark of amusement glinting in his eyes. "And all claimed to have killed Ridley. That roof must have been very crowded." He paused, and in that pause all amusement fell away. "And that's not including the one I received just before the trial. That one I found most interesting. It told of similar things Legolas had experienced when he was in Ridley's...company – things like soft words and glittering things that caught the eye and hazed the mind."  
  
Alflocksom shoulders slumped. He knew who the letter was from. Caspian. But he didn't think the lad would... Dammit, he did want him to get involved in this. One destroyed reputation is enough.  
  
Aragorn continued. "It told of bravery and honour, and of an accomplice, but the accomplice was not named. So, let's say for the sake of argument that the accomplice was you, shall we?"  
  
"Yes, sire," he said, then quickly lied: "No, sire. There was no accomplice. It was all my doing." His mouth suddenly felt very dry and his eyes would not lift no matter how hard he tried to lift them. Lying had never been his strong suit.  
  
Presently there was another soft wrap at the door. Aragorn didn't look away from Alflocksom as he called, "Come."  
  
At the sound of the door opening and closing, Alflocksom did not turn to see who had entered. He didn't need to. He already knew who it was.  
  
After a moment, Aragorn said, "Join us, Caspian," and waved to the empty chair beside Alflocksom. "I believe it's time we cleared the air. Rest assured that what is said in this room will stay in this room. But I want the whole story, gentlemen, and no one is leaving here until I get it."  
  
After Caspian sat, there was a long, long, uncomfortable silence, and in it, the captain seemed to be studying his hands.  
  
/This is what the sparrow had wanted, isn't it?/ Alflocksom thought. /To do the telling and finish this properly. To do it honourably. Not in a letter, but with words. A letter wouldn't absolve the sins of the soul; only words would, wouldn't they?/  
  
Yes. He knew that.  
  
/What are you willing to sacrifice?/  
  
Who's voice was that? Orome's? No, not this time. The Lords? No. Nor was it the voice of his father, who had raised him to be an honourable man and expected much. That was the hardest voice, the one he often heard in his troubled times, the one he wanted so much to please and so seldom did. No, not that voice, not this time.  
  
This time what he heard was his own voice, his own conscience, urging him to let it all go and damn the consequences. He held so much information...and hadn't told all the tale. Like Caspian's desperate want of comfort and absolution, he found himself wanting to be rid of his own guilt. But the question wasn't, he saw, whether he could say it; the question was whether or not he could move past this without saying it. No, he knew. He'd never be able to leave it behind. If he were to speak it now, there could be nothing left hidden; he would have to tell the king of his part and everyone else's as well. At the labyrinth's entrance, it had been. He would tell everything.  
  
And as Alflocksom began, a fog grew in Aragorn's mind. It gripped him and set him down into what had been...  
  
Part 2  
  
Aragorn stands in an empty and very familiar corridor. He sees Alflocksom in front of the labyrinth's entrance, his hands clenching and unclenching as if nervously waiting for something to happen.  
  
"Alflocksom?" Aragorn calls from where he stands by the stairs.  
  
The captain ignores him and continues to pace back and forth. For Alflocksom, Aragorn is not here; this is not in the present, but the past.  
  
/This is another premonition,/ Aragorn thinks, but knows it isn't. No, this it far clearer than any of the other premonitions. The smell of stale air coming from the labyrinth, the nervous sweat trickling down from Alflocksom's temples, the crackle of nervous energy in the air. No, this is no premonition. This is clear and real. This has already happened.  
  
/My lords, this is the day I died and Orome brought me back,/ Aragorn thinks. /And I saw this before. When?/ He searches his mind and finds it. /When I was... I was floating, and then I was here. I was right here. Or half here. Yes, that's right – I was half-here. This was before...right after I was first stabbed. When I was beginning to fade. How could I be in two places at once? And why didn't I remember this until now?/  
  
/The dead have honoured you before,/ Orome's voice whispers in his mind, but it is only a whisper from the past. (Isn't it?) /Now they honour you again. It is a special gift. Do you understand? Do you remember?/  
  
Yes. He remembers.  
  
/Watch and learn, but do not interfere,/ Orome's voice whispers in his mind, but it is only a memory from before, he knows, not now. Still, he heeds it.  
  
At the sound of Gimli's cry, Alflocksom wheels and then waits tensely, an ear cocked for anything. He can hear mumbles and murmurs echoing back through the tunnel but can't make out actual words. Frustrated, Alflocksom begins to pace back and forth in front of the entrance again, briefly stopping only to listen before resuming.  
  
After a time and as clear as a bell the elf's cry echoes from the labyrinth: "Go, Gimli! Take Ridley down!" then the dwarf answers: "Aye, I will! Stay with Aragorn!"  
  
Something is going to happen, Aragorn realizes. Something has happened. The look on Alflocksom's darkening face told that he knew it as well. And now, as though the thought had beckoned them, he hears the echoing click of approaching footfalls in the labyrinth.  
  
/It's Ridley,/ Aragorn thinks. /Somehow he got past both Legolas and Gimli./  
  
And sure enough, after another moment, who should run almost into Alflocksom's arms but the man himself. But Alflocksom is more than ready for him, planting his feet and throwing a shoulder into Ridley's chest as he runs past. The block is enough to knock Ridley right off his feet and send him sprawling across the polished floor. The knife skitters away from him as he falls and it strikes the far wall a good fifteen paces from him. Ridley is down and dazed, and Alflocksom wastes no time in taking advantage of that. He straddles Ridley then pulls the set of manacles from his belt and slaps them on his wrists before he can recover. A minute later, Gimli emerges from the labyrinth and seeing them there stalks forward, his eyes wild with fury and his axe firmly in hand.  
  
Alflocksom glances up. "The king?" he asks.  
  
Gimli stops in mid-stride, his face falling as though he has just remembered something horrible. "The healers? Where?" he asks breathlessly.  
  
Then Alflocksom's face falls as well, knowing there is only one reason for the dwarf to ask such a question. He points down a hallway. "Two rights and a left, then follow it straight to it's end," he says quickly.  
  
Gimli races past Aragorn less than a hand's width away without seeing him, and Aragorn already knows that he will not see Gimli again until...afterward.  
  
Alflocksom grabs Ridley by his elbow and yanks him to his feet. "What did you do?" he snarls into the fake king's face. And that's when Ridley does something totally unexpected. He laughs. He laughs as though it is a game, as though he is the only one privy to the punch line of a hilarious joke, as though he has just witnessed the funniest prank in the world. And in that laugh, Aragorn and Alflocksom both realize what has happened and what Ridley thinks of it.  
  
Alflocksom starts down the corridor toward Aragorn, still holding the chain between Ridley's manacles...now he looks almost like he is dragging him.  
  
"Let's see how funny you think this is," Alflocksom snarls as he and Ridley start up the stairs that lead to the rooftop.  
  
Heart heavy with dread, his stomach clenched in a knot, Aragorn follows, and as he walks unseen behind them, he wonders: Why the rooftop? Probably because when Alflocksom had glanced past Ridley's shoulder he had seen the stairway leading to them. Maybe he only wants to scare him. Maybe he only wants to make him stop laughing. Maybe both are true, but those are not the only reasons. The real reason, Aragorn realizes, is that as soon as Alflocksom had seen the stairway he'd decided what he was going to do. So up they go. And when they reach the top Alflocksom removes the handcuffs, and as he does, it's obvious that he's searching Ridley's face for some tell-tale sign of regret or remorse or...something. But all he sees is more humour, and all he hears is more laughter, and his face hardens in determination and anger.  
  
He demands Aragorn's possessions back and Ridley complies, right up to the ring. That, he takes off slowly, and places it in the palm of his own flat hand. He tilts it first one way and then the other while the sunlight twinkles off it's gold. Then he begins to talk – a droning chatter that seems to go on and on until that's all that Alflocksom seems to hear. Soon the captain's face grows slack, hands grow numb, mind grows hazy; and all the while he stares at the twinkling ring as the droning voice going on and on and on...  
  
Perhaps Alflocksom understands what is happening to him at the last second – that Ridley is using Aragorn's ring to catch his eyes and his mind, and that the words were not just talk but a way the capture his soul.  
  
Maybe...but it's already too late. His mind slides away from him and his body is no longer his to control – it now belongs to Ridley.  
  
Part of Aragorn wants to go to Ridley and slap the ring from his hand, but he knows this isn't the way it's supposed to go. Even if he tried, he doubted it would do any good; his hand would likely pass right through, like the hand of a ghost.  
  
A ghost. Yes. That's exactly what he is here. That's why he couldn't remember this until now. He is a ghost here; was a ghost here. At least a good part of his soul had been here to witness this. He can do nothing but watch.  
  
So, unaware that he has been entranced – Alflocksom can't grasp the fact that he is entranced, never having been before – he stands like a statue: unmoving and unthinking and unaware of anything around him...or beside him. But there is someone else on the roof, and Aragorn sees him move silently up beside Alflocksom.  
  
Now the ring is twirling through the air, sparkling in the sunlight. The captain's eyes follow it's movement as it arcs and makes it's decent to the floor. When it hits the stone, it bounces once, twice, three times, and then comes to rest in the shadows by the edge of the wall.  
  
The captain stands where he is, his eyes on the ring but no longer bound to it; his slack face drawing back up, just beginning to understand what has just happened: Ridley has used the ring and his words to put him under some sort of a spell.  
  
Now the captain is aware that Caspian is beside him, sword drawn, it's tip pointed at the bewitcher. Alflocksom does not turn to the young guard; he is frozen by the man in the king's clothes who is raising his bleeding hand and looking at it with agonized, unbelieving eyes. Actually, Ridley had been lucky, Aragorn realizes. Caspian's blade had come from below the palm to strike upwards with it's flat side, not slicing, and so only smashed the tip of the second finger and tore off the nail instead of removing finger and all.  
  
Now Alflocksom sees Ridley for what he really is, for the monster that he is, then without taking his eyes off Ridley he says to his young saviour: "He won't stop. He'll never stop until he has the crown, until he has killed Aragorn and takes what he wants. He'll never see a trial. And if he does, with the death penalty all but abolished, he'll never get the justice he so richly deserves. He'll live... and he'll be back. The battle may be over but the war has just begun."  
  
The young guard's eyes narrow. "Unless it ends here, sir."  
  
"That's just what I was thinking. Perhaps you should go."  
  
Caspian shakes his head slowly. "My place it beside my captain, and my job is to protect the king...sir."  
  
Alflocksom takes a step toward Ridley with a closed fist, likely meaning to smash him across the face...and he can do that, he realizes, for he can move now. But before Alflocksom can lay a hand on him, Ridley holds out his wrists as though waiting for the manacles...then starts laughing again. Both Alflocksom and Caspian grab him, one on each side, and then he is  
  
(flying)  
  
falling over the edge of the wall, twirling in the air like the ring a minute before...and he isn't laughing anymore. He is screaming.  
  
There are no words exchanged between the captain and the young guard, only a knowing look. Then they make their way down the steps and meet Gimli rushing up.  
  
Part 3  
  
Aragorn came back to himself and was silent for a time. Then: "This whole thing...to put Gimli on trial over a man like that – a man who did his damnedest to kill me... This should never have gone as far as it did." He shook his head in disgust. Then, as though speaking to himself, quietly asked, "Tell me captain, what is the first thing one does when arresting someone?"  
  
"Disarm them, sire," Alflocksom answered, his eyes still lowered.  
  
"Yes, that's right," said Aragorn distantly, nodding slowly as though weighing this. Then: "But for a man whose words were as a weapon, nothing short of gagging him or removing his tongue could have disarmed him, so...he was never really disarmed. Isn't that true?"  
  
Alflocksom opened his mouth as if to speak...then he closed it again. He honestly hadn't thought of it that way. But the more he did think about it, the more confused he got.  
  
"That is true, captain," Aragorn was saying, his voice still distant, and Alflocksom looked up now and listened as he continued. "Never underestimate the power of words, Alflocksom, for I knew of a man – a pale, horrible, wretch of a man, a "witless worm" and "snake" Gandalf had called him – who possessed the same bewitching power of the forked tongue as Ridley. His name was Grima, son of Galmod, though was known simply and more appropriately as Wormtongue. He gave council to King Theoden but was at the same time in league with Saruman. He used his wit of words to counsel The Lord of the Mark, and as he did, he captured his mind. Wormtongue almost succeeded in bringing down Rohan, and if Rohan had fallen, all would have been lost. From everything Legolas has told me, as well as what I know myself, I believe Ridley possessed the same leechcraft power as Wormtongue did, and maybe more so; the only difference between the two was Ridley didn't have the position to use it as Wormtongue had. You can believe me or not, but I know with certainty that given enough time Ridley would have destroyed Gondor."  
  
"But sire, Ridley was in custody - in manacles... I took them off and – " Alflocksom tried to explain, but Aragorn stilled his words with a shake of his head and a small, sad smile.  
  
"You can't place into custody one that can not be disarmed," he said. "If a trainee under your tutelage manacled a killer with an armed crossbow still in his hands, would you consider that killer to be disarmed and in custody?"  
  
Alflocksom lowered his eyes. "Of course not, sire. But – "  
  
"Yet Ridley's words were as deadly as any crossbow, manacled or not," Aragorn said. "Place the blame where it should be and let it haunt him in the afterlife, not you here and now, for he will have that and more to explain to the Lords. But as far as your instincts and actions are concerned, they were correct, captain. Ridley had full intentions of killing me and taking Gondor, and he would have kept trying until he got her.  
  
"We all made mistakes, Alflocksom, myself more than anyone for wishing the crown had never been fated to me in the first place. And worse still, I made no provision in the laws for one the likes of Ridley when obviously I should have." He shook his head. "Of course, who would have thought there would be need of a law for someone who not only looked exactly like me but could influence one's mind? Still, the mistake was mine, not yours. You were forced to correct it, nothing more, and for that you have my gratitude." He paused. Grinned. "And as for you, Caspian, you have proved to be a true man of honour and worthy of a promotion, but I'll leave that up to the good captain." He paused. "Now, we shall speak no more of this. You are the captain of my guards, Alflocksom, and I will question neither your loyalty nor your honour, sir, for you are the most honourable of men. Understood?"  
  
"But – "  
  
"Understood, Alflocksom?" Aragorn repeated mildly, leaving the captain with no doubt that Aragorn now considered the matter closed.  
  
"Yes, sire," was all Alflocksom said, or could say. "But now what, sire?" he asked a little hesitantly, for he was not sure of Aragorn's mind and the king made no move to dismiss them.  
  
"Now we wait for the others," Aragorn said, after a moment's thought. "And when they come, answer only the questions put before you by me." He paused again, then added: "Keep a keen eye out, both of you. There is more than one snake in this palace."  
  
Part 4  
  
On the hour, as requested, all ten councillors, along with Legolas, Gimli, Aic, Vedt, and Seigen, met in the king's chamber. More than a few brows raised when they found Alflocksom and Caspian already there, with the captain standing to the side of the king's chair; his hand, as usual, resting on the hilt of his sword. The king's face was utterly unreadable as he watched each enter.  
  
"Aragorn?" Legolas asked, ignoring the others and moving toward his friend with Gimli in tow.  
  
Smiling, Aragorn rose, clasped Legolas' hand, and pulled him forward. The elf, struck by this move, let himself be pulled.  
  
Aragorn put his mouth close by the elf's ear. "Be ready to help me in...oh...about two minutes."  
  
Legolas frowned but nodded.  
  
"I have need of your eyes, my friend," Aragorn said, lowering his voice even more. "Both of you," he added, glancing at the dwarf. "We hunt snakes." He clapped Legolas, who still looked confused, on the shoulder and then turned to the councillors. "Gentlemen," he said. "I want one of you to explain to me how Ridley came to possess the crown."  
  
"He was an exact copy of you, sire," one blurted out, then lowered his eyes and stepped back as though instantly regretting his boldness.  
  
"You are supposed to be the Councillors of Gondor. You should have known the difference between the real and the fake."  
  
"How could we?" asked another. "No one could tell that."  
  
"Oh really?" Aragorn asked. "Legolas could. So could Gimli." Aragorn's eyes cut to Alflocksom. "Captain, did you know the difference on sight?"  
  
The captain nodded. "Yes, sire, I did," he said honestly.  
  
"How?"  
  
"His eyes, sire. They were..." Alflocksom hesitated for a moment, rethinking the word  
  
(evil)  
  
that first came to his mind. He glanced down as he searched for the right word, and when he found it, his eyes lifted back to the king's face. "...strange, sire."  
  
Aragorn raised a brow. "How so?"  
  
Alflocksom's brow furrowed and he heaved a deep breath as he thought. After a long, long pause, he finally said, "Well, his eyes laughed, sire, when there was nothing amusing. They also had a hardness in them that you do not have." He shook his head. "I can't explain it, except to say that his eyes were not yours."  
  
"Aye," the dwarf added, more to himself than anyone else. "He found amusement in cruelty. Amusement...or comfort." He shrugged. "Strange eyes, he had. Very strange. Not the eyes of a friend at all."  
  
Memories began to creep into Legolas' mind. The droning voice of the dwarf went on, and it's tone was so low over the clear memory of his own screams and pleadings that he heard none of it, any more than he could see the dwarf's face through the sudden misting of his eyes. His ears began ringing, his cheeks felt strangely numb, and the air in the room was suddenly too thin.  
  
/Faint,/ Legolas thought with astonishment as his breath picked up. /Lords, I think I'm going to faint./  
  
"...yet as soon as I found myself face to face with him, I knew on sight," said the dwarf, and Legolas caught none of it. The dwarf glanced up at him to prod him to confirm his words, then he tipped his head. "Legolas?"  
  
Though the elf had been staring at the dwarf, his mind had been filled with flashes of memory – memories of the mine. At the sound of his name he blinked twice and began to come back to himself.  
  
"Legolas?" Aragorn was now looking at him with concern. "Are you alright?"  
  
The elf nodded. But he wasn't. He felt cold, and his heart was beating too fast. "Can you " – he licked his lips – "open a window? It's a bit tight..."  
  
Legolas never finished that particular sentence. His cheeks paled as if he had seen a ghost. Or heard one.  
  
Tight. There was that word again. And suddenly the word prompted another memory – one that crashed over him as fresh as if a moment ago. He could see it – see it all and feel it all – and although it was so quick – no more than a flash, really, for a moment he was there again, laying on the floor in that room. Ridley let him go, stepped back, and grinned maliciously. "Feeling a little tight, are you?" he asked, and Legolas remembered thinking: /Tight?/ No, definitely not tight. He felt like his lungs were being yanked out of his chest.  
  
Then the memory let go.  
  
How long he might have stayed there in the memory Legolas didn't know – perhaps just long enough to frighten Aragorn half-to-death. Then Aragorn, who was now beside him (though he hadn't been aware that anyone moved), spoke his name in a tone of that mirrored his fear.  
  
"Legolas?"  
  
Then he felt a pressure on his arm. Glancing down he was surprised to find a hand on his elbow steadying him. His gaze lifted to meet Aragorn's worried eyes. /Those are Aragorn's eyes,/ he thought. /No doubt about it./ He smiled and gently shrugged him off.  
  
"I'm fine, Aragorn," he said, and for the first time in ages he truly felt fine. "And Gimli is right. You could never have Ridley's eyes." He turned to the dwarf. "Not strange, master dwarf. Haunted. I believe that was the word you were searching for. There was a shadow in Ridley's eyes that never left them, even when he was amused. Something happened in his past that left a deep scar inside," he said, tapping his temple.  
  
Legolas was right, of course, and Aragorn wondered if the elf now felt the same way: scarred inside. Then he wondered if that's how Legolas figured out the look. Takes one to know one, he thought. Still, he could see no signs of haunting in Legolas' eyes, and counted that, at least, as fortunate. He decided that was a conversation best saved for later. Right now he had to concentrate on finishing what he had started here.  
  
"You're sure you're alright?" Aragorn asked Legolas again, his eyes searching the elf's face for an answer.  
  
Legolas smiled, nodding.  
  
"Then be ready for anything, because this will not go over well."  
  
Aragorn turned again to the councillors. "Twice you have overstepped your boundaries. Twice you chose to wield a power you had no right to wield. Twice you accused this dwarf, my friend, of murder, and sought his head. It's possible that at first you truly believed Ridley was me – yes – but sometime later you figured it all out, didn't you?" He didn't wait for a reply, just carried on. He could see there would be none; the councillors jaws were dropping. "And yet you did nothing to stop him. Stop him? No – rather, you encouraged him, and fed off the power like starving dogs over a scrap of meat. And worse, you would have committed murder to conceal your corruption. Your actions speak louder than any words. They speak of dishonour; they speak of greed; they speak of a lust for a power you can never have. Councillors, you are hereby dismissed. I will not be counselled by dishonourable men."  
  
Whatever mouths not yet agape, unhinged, and not just the councillors mouths, but Aic's, Caspian's, and Seigen's as well. Somehow Alflocksom and Vedt remained totally composed.  
  
Legolas studied each councillor's face carefully. Their look mirrored one another's... except one. That one. The man in the back wearing the large cloak, though the day was warm. His face didn't pale nor did his jaw unhinge like the rest. Instead, his lips pressed into a tight line and hate flashed golden in his hazel eyes. Legolas didn't know his name but he knew him all the same – the head of the councillors. The way he took the news came as no surprise to the elf. This man, after all, had the most to lose and was likely the greediest of them all, being the one closest to the power.  
  
While all eyes remained fastened on the king, the elf was on the move along the wall, taking the longest possible way around and keeping his movements slow and utterly silent.  
  
"But sire," one in the front began to protest once he found his tongue. "Who –"  
  
"Alflocksom, Aic, Seigen, and Vedt are in need of promotion and are honourable men. Their counsels would be wise and welcomed to my ears. Yours are not. The simple truth is that I can no longer trust any of you. The hottest corners in the void are reserved for those who, in times of crisis, choose allegiance based on personal gain."  
  
With those words, the man in the back tensed. His hand hitched to something large hanging at his side and well hidden under his cloak. A second later something hard and cold and very pointed pressed against the back of his cloak, dead centre between his shoulder blades. He knew what it was and who held it at once, understood the game was lost, but couldn't understand how the elf had gotten the drop on him.  
  
"You can be made worse things than a fool," the voice behind the tip of metal said. It was empty, somehow – not just mild, but emotionless. "Move, and this goes into your heart." A beat of a pause, then, "Aragorn, I believe I've found your viper."  
  
All heads had turned to the sound of the elf's low voice. Now each shook theirs and muttered their displeasure. Alflocksom paid no attention to the mutterings. At first move of the elf his eyes had begun scanning too. Then fixing on Jomy, he'd begun stepping steadily closer and closer to Aragorn, ready to leap in front of him, if needs be, and give his life for his king. Now his eyes were fixed on the lump that had to be a hidden crossbow slung over the traitorous councillor's shoulder. Placing himself before Aragorn, he walked though the loose group straight toward Jomy and Legolas. Aic and Seigen took the cue and did likewise. Vedt positioned himself in front of the still healing king. Alflocksom stopped in front of Jomy, holding out his hand for it and looking at Jomy sharply.  
  
"Give it to me!"  
  
Jomy glared daggers at him, making no move to comply. Rather, his finger tightened on the trigger.  
  
"Give it to me, damn your treacherous face!"  
  
Jomy felt the elf's knife press deeper into his cloak in an obvious threat. He sneered darkly...then lifted his hands skyward in compliance.  
  
Alflocksom tore the crossbow away before Jomy could do more than begin to shrug it off his shoulder. The captain eased the tension off and removed the bolt. For a moment he considered shooting Jomy with it, since the act was obviously pre-meditated... but no, he wouldn't go down that road again. One murder on his hands was more than enough to live with.  
  
Seigen almost sneered. "You should have shot the weasel with it," he muttered, echoing Alflocksom's thoughts. "I would have. I may yet."  
  
Seigen looked at the traitor with a font of unconcealed disgust, looked at him as one might look at a vicious animal that was now caged...but could break free again, and attack when it does.  
  
He stepped forward, meaning to grab Jomy...or perhaps push him backward into the elf's knife.  
  
"Don't," Aic said in a low voice. He was standing on the opposite side of Alflocksom but looking at Seigen. His eyes were bright and knowing, as though he could read his mind. He didn't know why Seigen hated Jomy the way he did, but he had seen his friend's face, and that had been enough. "Don't, Seigen, after all you have done, don't throw it all away on the likes of him. He's not worth it, my friend."  
  
Seigen looked at him uncertainly for a moment, thinking he should destroy the cursed man, anyway – misery suffered did not justify misery to come, and as long as the man remained alive, misery was all he would bring anyone. Jomy was a bringer of misery, nothing more. None knew Jomy the way he did, and thank the Lords they didn't, but adding what he had done many, many years ago, to the treachery against the king now...it was more than enough to earn Jomy a place in the void. Jealous, Jomy used his influence to destroy Seigen's father's good reputation as well as the reputations of countless others, and he would destroy more, if left alive. Most have forgotten that. Seigen did not, nor would he ever.  
  
But then he thought of Aragorn and drew back. Later he would bitterly regret doing that, but that regret would call at another time, another day.  
  
"Perhaps you should have shot him, Alflocksom," Aic said with a dark sneer of his own. "He has lost his honour – "  
  
"– and so has lost his way," Vedt finished, doubling Aic's sneer. "Of course, that's just an observation, not an offer. A decent bolt would be a waste on the likes of him."  
  
"True, though it would have been my pleasure to waste it," the captain said. He grabbed Jomy and spun him on his heels, then shoved him toward the door. "You sure are determined to have a trail, aren't you, Jomy? Well, let's see if we can't accommodate you this time."  
  
"Well?" Aragorn called to the departing captain.  
  
"Sire?" Alflocksom asked, yanking Jomy to a halt in the doorway and glancing over his shoulder to Aragorn.  
  
"The promotion to councillors. None of you have answered."  
  
Answer him, Alflocksom, Orome's voice whispered in Alflocksom's mind as clearly as if he was whispering in his ear.  
  
/I think I understand your riddles now, Orome,/ Alflocksom thought. /This is what you wanted from me all along, isn't it? On the way to the mine, you said: "There is more than one way to save him and Gondor both, and more than one reason for it." This is what you meant, isn't it? It wasn't about Ridley destroying Gondor. It was about saving the king and stopping the councillors. You knew the councillors were corrupt, didn't you?/  
  
Yes, came a whisper as though on the wind.  
  
/They would have destroyed Gondor, not Ridley. Ridley was the means, not the end, am I right? He was the means for the councillors to gain power./  
  
Yes, Alflocksom. Now you know. But what will you do with that knowledge?   
  
/If I agree, will this test finally be over? Is it enough?/  
  
There was only silence.  
  
/Orome, I need to know – if I agree, will this be enough to save Gondor?/  
  
Yes. More than enough. All that you have sacrificed – indeed all that all of you have suffered and sacrificed – has lead you all to this moment. Gondor's future was in jeopardy and had to be protected at all costs, and only by testing could be found the most rare of beasts: men of honour, to safeguard her. This is your time, Alflocksom, and theirs, as it should be. As it had to be. Your heart is good, your honour intact. Now let your conscience be clear and make your choice.  
  
The captain fell silent for a moment. He glanced at Vedt, Aic, and Seigen (who were busy glancing at each other), then said, "We serve at the pleasure of the king. If that is your wish, sire."  
  
Aragorn smiled. "It is."  
  
"Then..." – he glanced at his three friends who were vigorously nodding their heads – "...we humbly accept."  
  
Seigen gave a loud whoop and the other two joined him.  
  
Smiling himself, Alflocksom added: "For Gondor!"  
  
The End.  
  
Note: I admit that I borrowed Dante's quote and re-worded it. The exact quote (though exact is only to the best of my recollection) is: "The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in times of crisis, preserve their neutrality."  
  
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Well, there you have it. I can't believe it's over.  
  
I tried to kill Alflocksom. Honestly. But I couldn't. Not after falling in love with the big guy. Ah well...  
  
The same goes for Seigen, Vedt, Aic, and Caspian.  
  
So, for now, everyone's fine...er...except Ridley. :o)  
  
I'm so grateful for TLATD, not only because it worked, at least to a degree; the story is here, after all (and that alone seems like a miracle in itself), but more importantly, I've met a lot of wonderful people because of it.  
  
Thank you dear readers for getting on my little train and allowing me to take you on a journey. It's been an honour. And thank you so much for the wonderful FB! It's greatly appreciated. :o)  
  
Cassia: It's because of you that this story came to be. (Umm...so I guess that makes this all your fault. LOL) Your encouragement is, and always will be, invaluable. :o)  
  
A huge hug and thank you goes to my brilliant friend Vi, who helped me in this story as best she could and supported me in ways she doesn't even know. My dear, when I said, "You are my spine" I hope you realize that if not for your help I would not have had the courage to post it.  
  
Trinka 


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